


Willow

by Aliquis



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Grief, Past Violence, Rating May Change, Saucy, and a heaping of political intrigue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-02-13 06:53:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12978492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aliquis/pseuds/Aliquis
Summary: In a city by the sea, Anya and Dmitry find their footing.





	1. And I matured in peace

**Author's Note:**

> Fluffy Dimya fic and just a dash of historical speculation (Note: significant creative liberties are taken and I am not a historian).  
> This is going to be a bumpy ride, so hold onto your butts. First, something short and sweet to get us started.

_Willow_

And I matured in peace born of command,

in the nursery of the infant century,

and the voice of man was never dear to me,

but the breeze’s voice—that I could understand.

The burdock and the nettle I preferred,

but best of all the silver willow tree.

Its weeping limbs fanned my unrest with dreams;

it lived here all my life, obligingly.

I have outlived it now, and with surprise.

There stands the stump; with foreign voices other

willows converse, beneath our, beneath those skies,

and I am hushed, as if I’d lost a brother.

                                   -ANNA AKHMATOVA

 

 

Anya could not be entirely sure she was not dreaming.

She was accustomed to vivid dreams— nightmares that soaked her bedclothes with sweat and left her scrambling, half awake, for the door. Others were only strange in their realness, like fragments of half-remembered stories told out of order: a puppet show, a picnic on a hill, gentle fingers brushing back her hair. A result of a too-hungry belly and an overactive imagination, she used to think. But now, having crossed her grandfather’s bridge with Dmitry by her side, never had wakefulness felt so much like falling into a pleasant - if baffling - dream.

For almost ten years, she had drifted westward, carried only by her certainty that the answers to all her questions were waiting for her in Paris. And then she had met— no, _stumbled_ upon the only man in St. Petersburg who could take her there. Coincidentally, the same man who had caught her eye on a hot, clear day in June, years and years ago. The same man to whom she had just said, breathless from kissing, _Run away with me._

And running they were, with Nana’s blessing and a bag packed with clothes and a small portion of her “inheritance” with which to start a new life. The train station was within sight, and with it, countless possibilities.

Dmitry slowed and set down their bags, gesturing for Anya to look behind them at the sunset arching over the Pont Alexandre III. He took her hand and squeezed.

“Pinch me,” Anya said, breaking their silence as they stood and watched the sun begin its descent.

Dmitry gasped and pressed a hand to his heart in mock dismay. “That sounds like some form of treason, _your imperial highness._ ”

She laughed and bumped his shoulder. “I mean it, I feel like I’m dreaming! There’s this great big world out there and we get to explore it!”

Dmitry smiled at her excitement for a moment before his expression faltered. “And you’re sure about this?” he asked, a shade of trepidation creeping into his voice.

“Leaving Nana? She knows why I can’t stay in Paris, she knows it isn’t safe.” (Although Gleb’s conscience may have intervened earlier that day, there was no guarantee he would not change his mind, or that his superiors back in Russia would believe him. At least for now, at least until the rumors died down, Paris could not be her home.)

“But are you sure about—” he stopped, his jaw twitching.

“About what?”

He opened his mouth to speak but looked down and away, fidgeting with the leather strap of his bag across his chest.

“Dima?” she said softly, placing a hand on his back. He took a breath and looked at her, his lips twisting in a sort of brittle smile.

“About me, Anya,” he said, taking her other hand and holding it loosely by her side. “I don’t have much to give you, and I need you to be sure that this is what you want.”

She tensed, gripping his hands like a vice. “You think...you think that I’m not sure?”  

She had left her homeland behind, jumpedoff a moving train, and walked the span of Europe with him, and he thought _this_ was where she would get cold feet? Dmitry might have been a con man, but she hadn’t taken him to be delusional too.

He huffed a shaky laugh. “I think you’ve had an intense, emotional few days. I don’t want you making a decision you might regret.”

Unspoken was his fear that  _he_ would be her regret, but Anya heard it loud and clear. 

_This ridiculous man._

Frustration bubbled up in her throat, next to something sad and aching and so familiar. She took a fistful of his shirt and tugged him down to her level, kissing him with a bruising force. Caught off guard, his mouth was slack for a moment before crushing against hers with equal desperation. He grabbed her face with both hands and held her flush against him, groaning when she nipped his bottom lip sharply. When she broke away, her voice trembled as she spoke.

“What did I say about contradicting me, Dmitry?”

Dmitry blinked and looked at her blankly. “What?”

“What part of ‘Run away with me’ did you not understand? I want you, and I plan on grabbing the first holy man I find— Orthodox, Buddhist, or Jew— and making him marry us. Understood?”

 He stared dumbfounded, and then with joy, a slow grin widening on his face. Taking her by the shoulders, he tugged her to his chest and buried his head in the crook of her neck. “That’s a hell of a way to ask a guy to marry you, Anya,” he said, his voice muffled against her hair.

She laughed and laced her arms around his back, running her hand up and down his spine. “I had to make sure there was no room for confusion this time.”

He hummed and pulled her tighter, nuzzling her throat sweetly. Anya could have stood there with him forever, sheltering each other from the uncertainties that hid just out of sight. But she was a whole head shorter than him, and that angle could not have been comfortable for his neck, cozy and warm as it was for her.

She took a step back, and he straightened but kept one hand on her waist. A whole, shining city behind them, but nothing could have been more beautiful in that moment than the look on his face as he smiled down at her. The Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov, back from the dead and reduced to a quivering mess from a _smile_ …

_If this is a dream, please, no one wake me up._

“That brings me to my next question, then. Where do you want to go, Anya?” he asked, gesturing towards the train station. “What do you want to see?”

“The world is a big place,” she started, reaching into her dress pocket for the folded map Vlad had given her. “But I want to stay in France for now.”

She unfolded the map and held it up to catch the light of a nearby streetlamp. Dmitry crossed his arms over his chest, leaning over her shoulder to study the map.

“Have you heard of any of these places?” he asked, “I, uh, can’t read the map.”

Anya had almost forgotten that Dmitry did not know French— or the Latin alphabet, for that matter. She supposed he would have to be dependent on her to communicate for the both of them, for at least a little while. A nice change of pace, after the last few months. 

“Some, yes. My parents traveled to France before I was born, when Olga was a baby. My mother talked of Versailles constantly…” she trailed off, not wanting to fall too deep into the memory. Her eyes scanned the map before landing on the country’s southern coast. “But we’re not going to Versailles. We’re going here.”

Dmitry leaned in to see where she was pointing. “By the water?”

“Marseille. And that’s the Mediterranean sea. It’s warm, and I think it’s a port city, so there should be work, and from there we could eventually go to Italy, or Spain, or...or...Algeria!”

He raised an eyebrow. “What’s in Algeria?”

“I don’t know, but we can find out if we want!” She hugged the map to her chest, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “But I can just feel it, Dmitry! Marseille is where we’re supposed to be. It’s _calling_ me.”

“In that case,” Dmitry said, offering her his arm. “We shouldn’t keep Marseille waiting.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The 6 o’clock train to Marseille was quiet— not too many Parisians were leaving for the French Riviera on a Wednesday night. Anya had secured them their own compartment for the journey, which would last all through the night and well into the next morning. Dmitry was stretched out on the opposite bench, his jacket bunched up under his head as a makeshift pillow. Once the conductor had come to punch their tickets, Dmitry had closed his eyes, telling Anya: “wake me up in 20 minutes.”

She did no such thing. Her attention was torn between the book in her lap (the work of Gertrude Stein, gifted to her by Lily) and the man snoring quietly in front of her. In waking hours, Dmitry was always in motion; his arms and legs were rarely still, even while seated. So, sleep afforded Anya the opportunity to study him. His face had always looked rather boyish to her, but in sleep he looked particularly young. Almost fragile.

Anya snorted, imagining his reaction if she were to call him _fragile._ He had seen terrible things and survived a childhood raised on the streets, but he was strong like the willows that once grew in her family’s garden. Swaying and bending under the weight of heavy rain and snow, but never snapping. He had changed immensely since the day she first saw him as a boy, but his face still held the same softness. 

Nineteen years ago, a boy darted between guards to follow the royal procession. Thin and filthy and all alone, but absolutely beaming when she returned his smile. How long had he been an orphan at that point? How had he not resented the family who were in some way responsible for his anarchist father’s death?

Dmitry had spoken of his father a few times during their journey to Paris— passing mentions of a soup his father would make for him, or a pier they would visit together. She knew the bag he carried once belonged to his father. But that was it— they had spent the bulk of the journey discussing _her_ family, _her_ past. She didn’t even know his father’s name.

Anya sat up with a start as realization dawned on her. Not only did she not know his father’s name, but Anya did not know _any_ name by which to call him, other than Dmitry. He had only been introduced to her by his first name, and the names on their passports were of course fakes. They were running away to Marseille with plans to elope, and she didn’t even know his family name. The thought made her almost queasy with guilt.

Bolting from her seat, she crouched besides Dmitry and shook him awake. “Dmitry! Dmitry I need to ask you something.”

His hand clamped on her wrist but his eyes remained shut. “Hmph?”

“Dmitry, what’s your surname?”

His eyes fluttered open. “What?”

She shoved him again. “Your surname, Dmitry. What is it?”

He propped himself up by his elbow, pushing his matted-down hair out of his face. “You don’t know?”

Anya felt her cheeks flush. She shook her head. “It never came up, and I...I didn’t ask.” Absolutely idiotic, traveling across Europe with a man and not knowing his name. Not thinking to ask him the _bare minimum_ about his past. How selfish she’d been...

To her relief, he didn’t look annoyed by her apparent obliviousness. “It’s Sudayev,” he said. “Though to be fair, I haven’t used it much since my father died.”

“Sudayev,” she tested the weight of it in her mouth. “And your father’s name?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why, do you want to scold me?”

“I want to know how to introduce my husband in polite conversation.”  

The fact that this was the first time the word _husband_ had left her lips did not seem to escape him. His face softened, and he sounded almost wistful when he spoke. “Anton. Pa’s name was Anton.”

She considered it. “Dmitry Antonovich Sudayev. So that’s your proper name.”

_One mystery solved._

He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly and chuckled. “It’s been a _very_ long time since anyone has called me that. Maybe Vlad once or twice, if he was trying to rile me up. But you know, I sort of like it coming from you.”

Dmitry then righted himself to a sitting position and patted the spot next to him. Anya clambered onto the seat, tugging her legs beneath her. They sat in silence for a moment, watching the lights from Paris in the distance growing dimmer in the night.

“Do you like it?” He asked suddenly, tapping a hand on her knee. “Sudayev, that is. Like I said, I don’t have much to offer, but...I can give you that.”

For ten years, she had neither name nor family to call her own. Then this morning, _Anastasia Romanov_ had felt like donning a warm, familiar coat, but one that no longer fit comfortably. It was never the name she was looking for— it was the family that came with it.

Anya fought back the joy welling inside her as she pretended to ponder his suggestion. “I suppose...but, I’ll warn you. I’m not giving it back.”

He leaned in, lifting her chin to kiss her sweetly. When he withdrew, his eyes were dark and burning with something that Anya could feel in her chest but couldn’t quite name.

“I'm counting on it.”

 

 

                                                  


	2. Foreign Voices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anya and Dmitry arrive in Marseille and search for a place to stay. The past isn't content with being left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Round 2! Thank you so much for reading! Reviews make me smile <3

Marseille was like a warmer, sticker version of St. Petersburg, Dmitry had decided.

It was not quite noon by the time their train arrived in Marseille, and already the city was thick with the smell of wet wool, fish, and gasoline— a unique and thoroughly unpleasant combination Dmitry thought for sure he had left behind in Russia. Even the pickpockets were familiar; he had barely taken five steps off the train when he caught a boy wrist-deep in his overcoat pocket (“First thing you need to teach me is how to curse in French,” Dmitry had muttered to Anya as the boy fled). It must have recently rained, as streetcars were kicking up grimy water and splashing their ankles as they made their way to the city’s main square.

Naturally, Anya seemed to be loving it.

“It’s not even April and it’s so _warm_ ,” she gushed, shucking her coat and folding it over her arm. “And look, there’s a cute little cafe up ahead! I can almost smell the coffee!”

“I only smell fish.”

“Are you sure that’s not _you?_ ” She looked over her shoulder, poking her tongue out at him.

“Hey!” he protested, but waited for her to turn around before sniffing the inside of his collar. _Nope, it was definitely the city._

The main square was surrounded on all sides by buildings that once probably looked stately, but now appeared weathered and gray from soot. Dmitry couldn’t read the storefronts, but he had seen enough of Europe now to know markets were the same just about anywhere you went: the butcher shop, with several whole chicken hanging by their feet in the window; the frosted glass and warm, yeasty smells emanating from the bakery; street vendors just starting to unroll their awnings.

And of course, the people. Different play, same characters. Women in groups of two or three walked with parcels or baskets in hand, and some with young children. Dock workers were milling about in grease-stained coveralls or sleeveless undershirts, talking and joking loudly among themselves or flirting with the women bold enough to approach. Two street performers— one fiddle, one accordion— fought to be heard from either side of the square.

The open air cafe Anya had led them to was sandwiched in between a tailor and the pharmacy, and Dmitry had to admit that the prospect of freshly roasted coffee was tempting _._ He had slept on the train some— more than Anya had, definitely— but there was only so much sleep to be had on a train jostling its way over hills and rickety bridges. His energy was dwindling to dangerous levels.

Anya, on the other hand, was practically glowing with excitement. Once they were seated at their table, her head continued to swivel, looking all around her at the shops, the town hall, the faded blue and white church with its winding spires that almost, _almost_ reminded him of St. Nicholas cathedral.

He wondered if she noticed the same uncanny _sameness_ he did. Replace the French signs with Russian ones and add a few more stray dogs, and they might as well be back on his old turf. Maybe that was why she chose this city in the first place— to remind her of home. After all, as a descendent of Peter the Great, Petersburg actually _belonged_ to her family.

After a few minutes, a bored-looking waiter appeared tableside, addressing Dmitry in rapid French. _“_ _Bonjour,_ _monsieur._ _Qu’est-ce que vous voulez commander?”_

Dmitry chuckled and gestured toward Anya. “Uh, you better ask her.”

The waiter’s eyes lit up, his slight scowl replaced with a wide grin as he looked back and forth from Dmitry to Anya. “ _Es-tu russe?_ My apologies; I should have known! You are both carrying such large coats! Please, call me Viktor.”

Anya nodded vigorously, quickly rising to her feet to clasp the waiter’s hands with both of hers as if greeting an old friend. “Yes! My name is Anya, and this is Dmitry. We’ve traveled all the way from St. Petersburg.”

The waiter whistled low, shaking his head. “We are all very far from home, then. I’m originally from Voronezh, but it has been many years since I left.” Viktor turned once more to Dmitry. “Have you come to join all of your countrymen at the docks?”

Dmitry raised an eyebrow, shooting a worried look at Anya. Would gossip of Anastasia’s survival have made it all the way to Marseille? They were supposed to be laying low, not fueling rumors in yet another European city…

“There are more Russians here?”

“We are a small but growing number in these parts. We can’t all afford Paris, and the weather’s nicer, anyway.”

If Anya shared Dmitry’s concerns, she wasn’t showing it. “I had no idea, how nice to have a little piece of home here! Oh, and speaking of home…” she glanced at Dmitry slyly. “Would you happen to know of any boarding houses or inns nearby? Just until we get on our feet.”

Viktor laughed and clapped a large hand on Dmitry’s back, bumping him against the table. “Oh, do I! You want to go see Elena Luzhkova at 17 Rue Saint-Antoine. She and her husband are Petersburg natives as well. They run a reputable place. Clean, Christian. Perfect for a young couple. Here,” he whipped out a notepad and pen. “I will write down directions for you. And while I’m at it, your order. Coffee? Croissants?”

“Thank you so much, we’ll be sure to go. And yes, coffee and croissants would be perfect. _Et la bouillabaisse_ , _s'il vous plaît._ ”

“ _Oui, madame,”_ he answered, inclining his head politely before turning on his heel back toward the kitchen, apparently not pausing to question why a newly arrived Russian migrant would already speak perfect French.

“Anya…” Dmitry started, picking up the slip of written directions Viktor had left behind. “Is this a good idea? What if we slip up and someone finds out who you are?”

She rested her head on her clasped hands and considered it for a moment. “Wouldn’t that be a possibility anywhere we go? There’s always going to be a chance that I say something or do something that might seem...out of place.”

“Yes, but...it’s _different_ around Russians. Everyone knows someone who knows someone who is a Soviet agent, and I don’t want you to—” He didn’t finish his thought. Couldn’t.

“Dmitry,” she leaned over the table to take his hand, smiling at him reassuringly. “Everything is going to be fine. No police commissioner is going to be checking up on fish-wife gossip from _Marseille,_ of all places. And the Russians who settled here _escaped_ from the Bolsheviks. No one is turning anyone in. Trust me.”

He nodded and squeezed her hand. “I do.”

 

* * *

 

After lunch (and after Viktor made them promise to come see him again soon), they started the trek towards 17 Rue Saint-Antoine, following Viktor’s messily scrawled directions.

Dmitry had relaxed a little about seeking a room from a Russian landlady, and at that point in the day, he would have bought a stall in a stable if it meant he could put down these stupid suitcases and _sleep._ Anya had mellowed from her earlier excitement as well, content to walk in relative silence by his side and watch the goings-on of the city.

The busy boulevards of the city center had narrowed into quiet lanes lined with row houses and small shops. Through alleyways, he could just make out the line of piers and ships docked at port. Up ahead, a group of young girls were taking turns throwing a wooden stick at a stack of pins arranged within a circle. He vaguely remembered a similar Russian children’s game, from an age when he still had the time and playmates for games.

Anya stopped when she saw what he was looking at. “ _Gorodki,_ ” she said quietly, and stood rooted at the spot. Her eyes glazed over with that fog he’d seen a few times before, like she was trying to remember a dream.

“Anya?”

“Gorodki,” she said again, her voice quivering. “We played it all the time, when the weather was nice. My sisters and I…”

“Oh.”

“Mama didn’t want my little brother to play, but once we took him out to the field with us when she wasn’t looking. He didn’t get hurt, but she sent us to bed without supper. Alexei snuck bread and cheese into our rooms…”

Dmitry recalled an earlier conversation, and his first exposure to her fiery temper. “He was your best friend.”

“We were all close…” she shook her head, as if trying to shake off the memories. “Anyway, it shouldn’t be too much farther. Just down this street…”

He knew a cue to change the subject when he heard it, so he followed her lead. There would be plenty of time for reminiscing later, if she wanted to. Still, he watched her with concern, wondering what other shadows from her past were lurking just beneath the surface.

Soon after turning the corner onto the street (more of an alleyway, really), they were in front of a tall, yellowing building with flaking red shutters. Laundry hung from lines strung between buildings.

“Well, this is it,” Dmitry said, turning to Anya. “Shall we?”

She took a breath and nodded, and darted a hand out to knock on the door with three quick raps. A minute went by before an older woman in a brown dress and floral apron opened the door. She took one look at the both of them and smiled wide.

Dmitry extended his hand to shake. “Hello, we’re—”

“Russians! Yes, I can always tell. My name is Elena. Come in, come in, welcome to France! Here, let me take that, child. You look like you’re about to keel over. Did you eat? You’re both so thin.”

Dmitry and Anya shared a look and bit back their laughter as they were ushered over the threshold by Elena Luzhkova. Viktor’s story checked out; she was _absolutely_ Russian.

On the main floor there was a narrow staircase and a door off to the side. The walls were a faded pink that might once have been red.  Elena fiddled with the knob as she shouted up the stairs: “Boris! Guests!”

While they waited for “Boris,” Dmitry and Anya were led into the Luzhkov’s apartment on the first floor and directed to sit at the kitchen table. He took inventory of his surroundings while Elena made tea. It was a small apartment, made smaller by the many pieces of furniture crowding the room. The rug was threadbare and the couch seemed rickety, but the shelves on the far wall were filled with books. Not rich, but books weren’t cheap. _Intellectuals then,_ he mused. Hanging on every wall were Orthodox icons and crosses, and he could count two bibles just from where he was sitting. _Devout intellectuals. Interesting._

“Our waiter at the Cafe des Epices gave us your name, Madame Luzhkova. Viktor,” said Anya.

Elena poked her head around the corner from the kitchen. “Oh, Viktor? He’s a good boy. Sends half of what he makes back home to his mother. He rented from us for a few months two or three years ago.”

“He told us you were from St. Petersburg. We just arrived from there as well,” Dmitry added, skirting around their rather eventful layover in Paris. “Marseille is...very similar.”

Elena emerged from the kitchen carrying a kettle and four mugs on a tray. He stood up to help, but she shooed him away. “Mm, yes. Industrial port city, but not without its charms. And every day there seems to be more and more Russians getting off the train. Sugar, dear?”

Dmitry shook his head. “No, thank you.”

“Good boy,” came a booming voice from the door. A stout, spectacled, gray-haired man— Boris, then— was setting a toolbox down on a bench. “I don’t trust men who take sugar with their tea.”  

Dmitry immediately stood up. He might have been a street rat, but he knew his manners, when they counted. Boris was smiling, but his eyes raked over Dmitry and Anya intently.

“Here for a room, I suppose?” he said, bowing slightly. “I am Boris Stepanovich Luzhkov. How do you do?”

Elena clucked her tongue, swatting a towel toward him. “Been out of Russia ten years, and he’s still a stickler for formality.”

“The old ways are important, _myshka_ ,” he said to his wife, clasping her shoulders and kissing her lightly on the cheek before approaching Dmitry with his arm extended.  “And it’s good to see each other man to man.”

Dmitry shook the older man’s hand firmly. “Dmitry Antonovich Sudayev, sir.”

Boris’s grip was strong, but Dmitry kept a blank face, not daring to wince or avert his eyes from the landlord’s stare a moment too soon. He had run with enough street gangs and petty criminals to know when he was being sized up. After a moment, Boris relaxed his grip and grinned, thumping Dmitry on the back, hard. He turned and beckoned to Anya, standing somewhat awkwardly in between her chair and the table.

“And this beautiful young lady?”

Dmitry’s eyes flitted to the painting of the Blessed Mother just behind Boris’ head. Two devout Orthodox Christians were not going to allow an unmarried couple into their house, even with plans to marry soon. Dmitry reached out and tugged Anya to his side.

“My wife, Anya.”

Boris took her outstretched hand and kissed the back of it. “It’s a pleasure, Anya…?”

“I’m afraid I can’t give you much in the way of a full name, sir,” she said, not skipping a beat. “I was orphaned and never knew my parents. I was raised at the Bogoyavlensky Convent before making my way to Petersburg.”

_Convent? Smart girl._

“Ah, I knew you must be a convent girl!” said Elena. “She has those good manners, Boris.”

Boris chuckled. “I think my wife has made the decision for me, then. What sort of lodgings will you be needing? Our migrant workers leave us for the winter, so we have a few rooms available.”

Dmitry opened his mouth to speak, but Elena cut in. “An extra room? For a baby or two?”

“What? No, we’re not, _no,_ ” Dmitry sputtered at the same moment Anya answered quickly “Oh, no no no.” Her face was flushing red, and he was sure his was fairly pink too.

“No? Not yet? But soon?” Elena asked, a mischievous smile creeping at the corners of her lips.

Boris bent at the waist laughing, slapping his thighs. “Elena, don’t torture the poor children!”

“So...one room would be fine,” Dmitry said slowly, eager to change the subject. Anya shuffled from foot to foot, avoiding eye contact but smiling softly.

“Ah, yes,” said Boris, wiping at the tears in his eyes and still chuckling. “Let’s talk business.”

 

 

* * *

 

After handing over a reasonable amount of francs to the Luzhkovs and picking up a few food items from a nearby market, Dmitry and Anya were dead on their feet.

“I need to sleep for an entire day,” Anya groaned, pulling herself up the stairs to their new third floor apartment. “Maybe two.”

“You need to eat,” Dmitry said, unlocking their door. They had deposited their bags and coats earlier that day, but otherwise the apartment had remained untouched. Luckily, all of the furnishings had been provided.

Dmitry followed Anya to the small bedroom in the rear of the apartment, where she promptly flopped face down on the mattress. Her dress flared up, pooling just above her knees.

“I don’t need food, I need sleep,” she mumbled, turning her face sideways. “And I’m a princess, so what I say goes.”

He laughed and tugged her stockinged foot lightly. “Yes, your highness. How about you get dressed for bed?”

She rolled over and paused before saying slowly, quietly, like dipping her toe into cold water — “How about you undress me first?”

Dmitry froze, letting go of her foot. He hadn’t stopped to think about the fact that they were sharing a bed, that they were, for all the Luzhkovs knew, _married._  He would be a liar if he said he wasn’t at all tempted by her offer, but he’d be damned if he took liberties with the _tsar’s daughter_ before they were actually, properly married.

The heat in her eyes fizzled, replaced with hesitation as she rose to a seated position on the bed, sensing his hesitation. “It’s ok, if you don’t want to…”

He groaned, dropping to his knees next to her. “Anya, _want_ is not the problem. I want you in every way. Any way. But I need...” he took her hand and kissed the underside of her wrist, pressing his lips to her pulse. “...to do things right. Ok?”

She smiled and nodded, threading her fingers through his hair. “Ok. But I’m not hearing any chivalrous nonsense about you sleeping on the floor tonight. No one is going to be struck down by lightning if we share a bed.”

He rose to his feet and kissed the top of her head. “Deal, but _only sleeping._ ”

She grinned wryly, pulling him down by his lapels. “What about kissing?”

He knelt on the bed beside her and took her face in his hands, tilting it upwards so he could plant a lingering kiss to one cheek and then the other as her blue eyes fluttered close. He kissed the junction of her jaw and throat and she sighed. She was so trusting, so patient with him— he couldn’t think of anything he had done in his life to deserve her, but if this was some divine mistake, he prayed God wouldn’t intervene and take her away, again. He wondered with a flash of heat, not for the first time, why anyone had ever wanted to snuff out her light in the first place.

He lowered his head to kiss and bite at the soft skin just below her ear, and she arched her neck, gasping.

“Dima.”

The sound of his name felt simultaneously like being set on fire and dunked head first into icy water. She writhed against him, murmuring incoherently

“God, I love you,” he groaned against the corner of her mouth, his nose nuzzling hers. Part of him (actually, a very specific part) was already regretting his decision to wait to touch her. He hadn’t been expecting her to be... _vocal._

Her eyes shot open, piercing blue lit with mirth. “Then hurry up and kiss me properly.”

“Is that an order?”

“ _Yes._ ”


	3. Unrest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is nothing overly graphic here, but the subject matter is grim and may be a little upsetting. I promise the next chapter will lighten up considerably.

Anya woke up in an empty bed, the moon high in the sky outside the window. It was cold-- far colder than it had been when they went to bed just hours ago. The bedroom door had been left open, and light streamed in from the hallway. She rubbed her eyes and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

“Dmitry?”

With no answer, she pulled herself out of bed and walked out into the hall, blinking rapidly as her eyes adjusted. There were hushed voices coming from downstairs, but Anya couldn’t discern the speakers. The Luzhkovs? Surely it was past midnight; they shouldn't be awake at this hour. Perhaps something was wrong and they needed help. Perhaps Dmitry had already gone down to check. She was so tired, and her limbs felt heavy with sleep, but curiosity pulled her down the steps.

As she descended, the stairwell became narrower, the lights dimmer. Their apartment was only on the third floor, but she passed several more landings, each one darker and colder than the one before. Her shoulders slumped with the weight of her dragging feet, and her breath frosted in front of her. The farther she went, the louder the voices grew, but still garbled, as if meters underwater.

At the end of the stairwell, a door. She remembered the cellar door had a faulty knob— you had to pull it towards you and yank up. The door swung open and her mouth went dry.

Her family, real and solid just steps away, exactly as she remembered them. Dressed in traveling clothes, though the girls wore their hair in braids for sleep. It was late; they had been pulled out of bed by the doctor, told to dress quickly and go downstairs to wait for their transport— told they were being taken somewhere safe. Olga and Tatiana stood with their arms folded, whispering to each other, while Maria rested her head against Olga’s shoulder. Mama sighed and smoothed the folds of her dress. Alexei sat sideways in his chair and held his Spaniel in his lap, stroking her fur and cooing soothingly. He had raised the dog since birth, and she followed him everywhere. Joy— her name was Joy.

Papa tapped his foot impatiently. “Well? Is the car here?”

Anya froze, remembering where she was— what this was.

“No, Papa! Run!” She yelled, but her voice turned to cotton in her mouth. No one looked her way. The ringing in her ears intensified as the guards filed in from the side door single-file, their pistols by their sides.

_God, don’t make me watch._

She took a step toward her father and collapsed, looking down with panic to see rows and rows of impossibly huge diamonds and rubies sewn into her dress, anchoring her to the cellar floor. She was trapped, and her family was about to die.

“Papa!” She screamed, as the officer read the execution order.

“What? What?”

The briefest of terrified pauses, and then shots exploded in her ears, drowning out her screams and clawing at the floor. Her father dropped, receiving the brunt of the onslaught, and then her mother. Alexei, shot dead in his chair. The air tasted like gunpowder and blood, but still the soldiers fired as her sisters cowered in the corner, bullets ricocheting off the walls. Olga, Tatiana, Maria— their screams dying on their lips. Her whole family, everything she loved, gone in a matter of minutes.

A soldier turned and advanced toward her, as if he had heard her whimpering. Anya wailed, smoke stinging her eyes and choking her lungs. “Please, take me! Take me too!”

A hand wrapped around her arm. “Anya!”

“Do it!” She cried, throwing her arms over her head, readying herself for the blast.

“Anya!”

Her eyes flew open, and the cellar disappeared. She was in bed, and Dmitry crouched over her, gripping her shoulders tightly. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears and when she gasped for air, her throat spasmed, leaving her half-retching, half-choking. Her lungs were on fire. Her legs were numb and she panicked, thrashing under Dmitry’s hold.

“ _Anya_ ,” Dmitry said again, firmly. “You’re safe. Breathe.”

She gulped another breath and fell further into a fit of convulsing hyperventilation. “I— I— ” she wheezed, tears streaming down her face. Her father’s face— shock, then horror. Mama crumpling like a rag doll. Alexei frozen with fear in his chair. Tatiana shielding Anastasia with her body as the soldiers came closer, pointing their guns...

_All of them. All of them._

“I can’t breathe!”

Dmitry grabbed both of her hands. They were shaking violently. “You can. With me.”

Anya looked up to meet his eyes, her vision still swimming. He took a slow, deep breath and she followed, shuddering with the effort.

“Good. Keep going,” he said gently.

His breathing was deep and slow, and Anya clung to the steady rhythm like a buoy. She mimicked his inhale and exhale, syncing their breaths. After a few more deep breaths, feeling returned to her fingers. Dmitry’s face was pinched with worry as his eyes raked over her, looking for signs that she had injured herself in her hysterical fit. He rubbed his hands up and down her arms, warming her up.

She wondered how he knew exactly what to do to calm her so quickly. A technique his father had taught him? Or perhaps it was something Dmitry had needed to learn himself, soothing himself to sleep as an orphan plagued by nightmares. She couldn’t imagine a frightened Dmitry. There wasn’t a time she could remember when he appeared scared. Whether bravery or bravado— she envied it.

Dmitry called her brave, for surviving what she did. But there had been no bravery in that cellar, shielded by her sister. No bravery even in her own dream.

“You’re ok, Anya. It was just a dream.”

She stiffened. “It wasn’t. It was a memory. It was _real,_ Dmitry. They—”

He didn’t need to hear the rest. He gathered her into his arms, holding her tightly to him and murmuring calming words against her hair.

“I know, _lyubov moya_ , I know. I’ve got you.”

“They’ve been gone 10 years, but it feels like yesterday,” she said into his shoulder, clamping her eyes shut against the stinging tears. “I can see it so clearly. See them. _Hear_ them…”

“Do you dream about it often? I know that one night...in Paris…”

She pulled away, wiping her nose with her nightgown sleeve. “Yes, but never like this. Never like...like I’m living it again.”

The muscles in his jaw jumped and he gripped her arm tighter, but he didn’t speak.

“And that’s the clearest memory I have of them— the night they died. What if...what if I forget everything else about them? And that’s all I have left? I don’t even have a grave to visit, no photographs…”

He took her chin in his hand and tilted her head up to meet his gaze. “Anya, I promise you won’t forget them. We’ll remember them together. You can tell me all about your family, whatever you remember. Every day a new memory. Would that help?”

She nodded, smiling weakly. Surely there were still good memories left— she just had to dig deeper.

“You won’t forget them,” he repeated, as much of a promise to himself as it was to her. “Now, do you want tea? Or something to eat?”

She shook her head and climbed back under the covers, pulling the quilt up to her chin. “I think I just need to sleep.”

He nodded and stood to shut off the floor lamp by the door. Anya turned toward the window, folding inward. She clenched her fists to still their trembling. Her nightmares had never affected her quite like this— never left her breathless and shaking long after she had been pulled from sleep. But then again, she had always thought her nightmares were cruel products of her imagination. Now she knew they were real.

Once the room was cast into darkness again, Dmitry slid back into bed, curling himself around her like he was trying to envelop her completely. He slung an arm over her waist and she laid her hand over his, close to her heart.

“Tell me one thing about your father,” he prompted. “Something happy.”

She thought about it, drawing circles on the back of his hand with her thumb. “When I was too young to attend the grand balls, Papa came to my bedroom before I went to sleep so I could have the first dance of the night with him. I stood on his feet and he’d spin me around the room. It felt like flying,” she said, the memory bringing a smile to her lips. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What’s a good memory you have of your father?”

Dmitry went silent, and for a moment she was worried she had brought up a sore subject and upset him.

“He sang,” Dmitry said, barely above a whisper. “He sung for an opera, once. Just in the ensemble, but he loved it. He had a voice that could shake the rafters.”

She shifted in his arms to face him, looking up at him curiously. “Do you sing too?”

Even in the dark, she could see a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Only when I’m drunk.”

“Then we will have to break out the vodka tomorrow, because I need to hear that,” she said, turning back around.

“Goodnight, Anya,” he chuckled, pressing his lips to her temple once she was settled.

She hummed and tugged his arm tighter around her. Her mind was racing, but she didn’t feel quite so untethered now. The pleasant memory of her father— and the prospect of Dmitry singing— was enough to distract her momentarily. Still, she knew there would be no more sleep for her tonight. The sun would be rising in just a few hours, and she didn’t trust her mind not to return to that cold cellar again. But she could close her eyes and breathe deep, knowing she was safe as long as she was awake.

They had been silent for several minutes, but Anya could tell Dmitry was still alert. His arm around her was tense, and every so often there would be a slight, irregular intake of breath, as if he was about to speak but couldn’t find the words.

Finally, he spoke, and Anya prayed he couldn’t feel her heart stutter against his open palm at his words.

“When you were dreaming, what did you mean when you said ‘Take me too’?”

She considered pretending to be asleep. What she did was no less untruthful.

“I don’t remember.”

He knew it was a lie but didn’t press her. He kissed her jaw firmly. “You survived for a reason, Anya. I want...I need you to know that.”

She let his words hang in the air— studied the foreign, anxious shape of them. Anya didn’t have to imagine it after all— she knew exactly what his fear sounded like.

“I do. Goodnight, Dmitry.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

March 13, 1928  
167 Boulevard Pereire  
Paris, France

Your Imperial Majesty,

We have arrived safely in Marseille. A Russian couple is renting us an apartment— it’s not very big, but it’s big enough for us. Once I find a job, I will pay back your loan used to purchase train tickets and lodging. Also, I am very sorry about stepping on your dress. If there were any damages, I will pay for that too.

I want to ask you for two things. First, a small favor. I was hoping you could send us photographs of Anya’s family. ~~She suffers from terrible nightmares~~ She misses her family dearly and I think it would make her happy to have something to remember them by. Any photograph would do, I think.

My second request is something I probably don’t deserve but I’m asking for anyway. Anya tells me your blessing was “implied” when she left you in Paris, but I think my father’s ghost would haunt me for the rest of my life if I did not _directly_ receive permission from Anya’s closest living relative. In which case, Your Majesty, I am formally requesting the honor and privilege of taking your granddaughter, Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova, to be my wife. She is ~~everything~~ dear to me, and I will love and protect her until I die. You have my word.

Hoping you are well. Anya sends her love, but I know she will be writing to you shortly. I was just ~~impatient~~ eager to send you these requests.

Humbly,

Dmitry Sudayev

P.S. Please ask someone to drop your reply in a public post box without a return address. I’m uneasy about my landlords seeing frequent letters arriving to the door from a posh Paris address.

 

  
March 16, 1928  
17 Rue Saint-Antoine  
Marseille, France

Mr. Sudayev,

I would not have sent my most beloved granddaughter off with a young man if I did not desire them to marry. But if you need it, then you may have my explicit permission. Take care of her in my absence— she is strong, but has suffered a great deal and will need your support and patience. Grief, you will find, is not a detour on your journey. Grief is a journey. She has just begun hers.

  
As to your baffling first paragraph: young man, I did not offer my granddaughter a loan. She has been given a small part of her rightful inheritance and I will not see any part of it returned to me. Take your first paycheck and purchase Anya a wedding gift. You will have plenty of other opportunities to prove your worth as a provider, or satisfy whatever ridiculous notion is in your head.

You’ll find enclosed several photographs from my personal collection. I have a great deal more and can send as many as you would like. I am an old woman with a long memory; it will not pain me to part with them. I hope they offer some comfort to Anya. As I told her once, many years ago, as long as she remembers them, her family will always be with her.

Regards,

MFR

P.S. You may address all future letters to the address on the envelope. I am a patroness of this convent, and they will pass on your letters to me with the utmost discretion.


	4. Linguistics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anya helps Dmitry brush up his interviewing skills, Dmitry finds some friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mangled French is my own. Thank you for reading and commenting!!

 

 

“ _Je cha da travail_.”

“No, Dmitry. _Je cherche du travail. Cherche du travail_. Repeat.”

Dmitry cursed and threw his hands up in surrender, shoving away from the kitchen table abruptly. The sheet of French vocabulary and phrases Anya had written for him fluttered to the ground behind him. They had been at it all morning, practicing Dmitry’s pitch for his job search that was supposed to begin today. At this rate, it would probably be months before he’d find a job. Who would want to hire a barely literate Russian immigrant with no legitimate work history? He couldn’t exactly list “smuggled a lost Russian princess across the border” as one of his qualifications.

Anya sighed and stood up to retrieve the vocabulary list, clucking at him like a schoolmarm. “Sit down, Dmitry.”

“It’s useless, Anya. I can’t do it. My mouth doesn’t move that way.”

“You just need to practice,” she said patiently. “If I learned to do it, you can learn to do it.”

He smirked, folding his arms across his chest. “Yes, but you were practicing for tea parties; I have to convince someone to give me a job. And knowing twenty words in French does not exactly inspire _confidence_ in employers.”

She stepped in front of him and took his untied tie in her hands. “But it shows them you’re willing to learn. And you will.” She knotted the tie expertly, pulling it tight and straightening it around his neck. Dmitry would have struggled with it for a least a couple minutes more without her help.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

She smiled, flattening the creases in his shirt with her fingers. “I had to help Alexei with his ties. We called him Fumble Fingers.”

“Could Alexei speak French?”

“He could. And you will too. Now, how will you introduce yourself to your future boss?”

Dmitry took a deep breath, wracking his brain. “ _Bonjour, je m’appelle Dmitry Sudayev_.”

She nodded, returning to her seat at the table. “Good. And what are you looking for?”

“Uh…” He shut his eyes, putting his hands on his hips and rocking on the balls of his feet. The words came awkward and stilted, but they came. _“Je cherche du travail.”_

Her grin stretched lazily across her face as she prompted him to continue. “Where are you from?”

_“Je viens de St. Petersburg.”_

“Russian, eh?” She leaned forward over the table, resting her head on steepled fingers. “And why on earth should I hire you?”

“Because I need a damn job.”

She snorted a laugh. _“En français, s'il vous plaît.”_

“Because, er, _parce que je suis responsable, fiable, et...et...”_ He looked to Anya for help, but she shook her head, arching an eyebrow.

“And what?”

He grabbed the foreign word by the throat and looked Anya in the eye proudly. _“Et travailleuse.”_

She clapped and bounded from her chair, looping her arms around his neck to pull him down for a brief kiss. He grinned against her mouth, spinning them around on the spot.

“I knew you could do it! Keep practicing and you’ll be chattering away in French with me in no time, _mon cher_.”

“Thank you, Anya. For being so patient.”

He planted another kiss on her cheek before she ducked away, throwing open the kitchen’s small pantry doors. “You’ll be gone all day, I’m guessing. You can buy something hot from the market if you want, but here’s an apple and some bread…” she threw the items over her shoulder for Dmitry to catch. “Cheese?”

He shook his head. “It’s too warm; it’ll stink. What are you doing today, while I’m gone?”

She shrugged, shining an apple before packing it in her own bag. “Same as you. _Je cherche du travail.”_

He tensed. “Oh. Right.”

She paused, turning to face him. “Is that a problem?”

It shouldn’t have bothered him, really. She fended for herself for a decade, working honest, legitimate jobs to keep food in her belly— Dmitry couldn’t even say that much. And since they were going to put the bulk of Anya’s inheritance into savings, she would have to find work too. If Anya had stayed with her grandmother, she would have never needed to work another day in her life, living in the lap of luxury. She was a princess, the last of the Romanovs, and yet she could end up sweeping the streets again, or toiling away in a dangerous factory. He would never be able to give her the palaces and fine clothes she had in another life, but couldn’t he at least give her back her dignity?

“Just...stay away from the mills,” he said finally, putting a hand on her shoulder as he passed behind her, reaching for the kettle to pour himself another mug of half-burnt coffee. “People have lost fingers in those machines. And worse.”

“I’ll take whatever is available,” she said firmly, leaning back against the kitchen counter with her arms crossed. “Since I know you’ll do the same.”

“Well, yeah. I’ll shovel shit if I have to. But _manual labor_ wouldn’t be appropriate for a—”

Her eyes narrowed, regarding him coolly. “What? Appropriate for a _what_?”

He knew he should let it go, that he was the unreasonable one here, but stubbornness tugged at his tongue. He put the mug down and raised his hands in exasperation. “A woman? Princess? Wife? Pick one.”

“I am more than capable—” she scowled, but he interrupted, grabbing her hands.

“I know you are. And you’re more prepared than I am, truth be told. But you shouldn’t have to do this,” he said, his voice hitching up in volume. “I didn’t ask you to give up your whole life to be with me, just so you can clean some rich bastard’s floors!”

Anya tugged her hands from his grasp, and for a single uneasy moment he thought she was going to slap him. Instead, she held his face in her hands, staring into his eyes with an intent but gentle expression.

“You didn’t have to ask,” she said slowly, punctuating each word. “I’m volunteering, willingly. I know what life I’ve signed up for. I know who I’m marrying.”

“A poor man,” he muttered bitterly, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“A man I love,” she corrected. “Who will work hard for his family. As will I.”

He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. At some juncture back in Paris, the confident, brazen Dmitry had been replaced with this insecure, petulant mess of a man. It was this country— it must have been. He was a fish out of water here, and more dependent on Anya than he had been on anyone since childhood. At this point, she would be marrying a boy playing pretend in his father’s shoes.

“You’re right. I’m being stupid,” he said at last, bending down to rest his forehead against hers. “My nerves are getting to me.”

“ _Oui, tu es très bête_ ,” she teased, patting his face lightly. “But I know where your heart is.”

She stepped around him them, retreating back to their bedroom. He followed, blowing on the steaming cup in his hands. They hadn’t decorated by any means, but the apartment was starting to look a little more like it belonged to them. Her red scarf lay neatly folded over his coat, which had been thrown haphazardly onto the chair in the corner. Their shoes were lined up like sentries by the door, and photographs of Anya’s family littered the dresser. She stood in front of the chest of drawers, running her fingers over a photo of her older sisters briefly before yanking open a drawer. A finely woven blue shawl was pulled from its depths and wrapped elegantly around Anya’s shoulders. He hadn’t noticed before, but she was wearing one of her nicer day dresses, dark blue cotton with a crisp collar.

“Anyway,” she said airily, adjusting the shawl’s drape and pinning it in place with an elaborate rose brooch. “I think I can talk myself into a respectable post. Do I _look_ like a penniless street sweeper?”

He chuckled, stooping to kiss her on the forehead. “No, you look like a dignified working woman.”

“And you,” she paused to straighten his tie. “Look like a man on a mission. Remind me what you’re doing today?”

He answered dutifully. _“Je m’appelle Dmitry. Je cherche du travail…”_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

  
_“...Je viens de St. Petersburg.”_

The foreman stroked his beard, nodding absently as he beckoned to someone behind Dmitry. _“Un autre Russe.”_

This was the third docking gang of the day, and to Dmitry, it seemed the most shorthanded. The burly foreman had look slightly frazzled when he approached asking for a job, and he could see why; a mid-sized cargo liner was just in sight, heading straight for their port. Both of the docks he had visited prior were plenty busy and in search of new workers, but neither were very interested in him once it became clear his vocabulary was extremely limited.

Dmitry felt a heavy hand clamp on his shoulder. He turned to find a hulking bear of a man behind him, a couple of inches taller than Dmitry and a good deal wider. He looked Dmitry up and down, already unimpressed.

“Just off the train, huh?” The man asked in Russian.

Dmitry straightened to his full height, pushing his shoulders back. He wasn't bursting at the seams like this man, but he knew he wasn't  _scrawny._ “Last week, sir.”

“Full name?”

“Dmitry Antonovich Sudayev, sir.”

“City of origin?”

“St. Petersburg. Or Leningrad, if you prefer.”

“I see. Papers, please.”

Dmitry’s mouth went dry and he stuttered, looking around for a quick exit. No one else had asked for his papers today. Would this man call the authorities on him? “I...uh, I don’t…”

The corner of the man’s mouth twitched, and his eyes betrayed silent laughter as he looked down at him. The bastard was messing with him. “Back to the Soviets with you, then.”

“They’ll have to kill me first, sir,” he said with mock politeness.

Finally, a real smile from his interrogator. His face wasn't quite so threatening, now. “I’m Pyotr Sokolov. Shift chief. Ever worked as a longshoreman, kid?”

“Not in an official capacity,” he admitted sheepishly. “I’d unload a couple crates or help with some rigging for a few rubles in Petersburg. Jobs are hard to come by, back home. But I’m strong, and I’ll work hard.”

Pyotr snorted, shaking his head. “This is difficult work, Dmitry. Dangerous work. I don’t have time to teach you the ropes if you’re going to fall behind or quit on me. And with no references…”

Frustration bubbled up inside him. “I didn’t jump off a moving train, sneak out of Russia, and _walk_ across Europe because I was an easy quitter,” Dmitry said sharply, lowering his voice. “I’m here because I intend to work.”

The other man raised an eyebrow. “I thought you took the train?”

“We took the train from Paris,” he said, unsure if it was a good idea to be readily admitting all of this. “My wife’s grandmother paid our way.”

“Wait,” Pyotr held up a hand. “You’re married?”

 _Almost._ “...Yes.”

Pyotr laughed, punching his shoulder. “You should have said so! You can have the job, brother.”

Dmitry was elated for the briefest of seconds before Pyotr’s words registered, and then he was just left with confusion. “What? Why does it matter that I’m married?”

“Most of the men here are single,” he explained. “They come and go with the seasons, chasing work, chasing tail...nothing tying them down. They’re unreliable. Married folk want to put down roots, have a steady income. They’re stable, see?”

Dmitry nodded. “And you don’t want quitters.”

Pyotr grasped Dmitry’s hand in a firm shake. “Exactly right. Marriage isn’t for quitters. You on board?”

He thanked God for his almost-wife.

“Absolutely.”

 

-

 

  
Pyotr was right about it being hard work, but Dmitry relished the opportunity to spend his pent-up nervous energy. It was almost satisfying to feel his muscles burn with the pushing, pulling, and lifting of heavy cargo crates. Now that he was by the water, the city’s climate was starting to grow on him too; it was warm, but the wind and mist from the sea stopped him from overheating while he worked. The chatter and occasional whistling from the other men on the crew helped to pass the time. It had been fairly easy to ingratiate himself with the crew; they seemed to appreciate having another pair of hands, and three of them were also Russian.

“A good number of Russians work at the docks,” Pyotr said as they offloaded the last of the crates into the bed of the waiting truck. The sun was just starting to set over the water. “Though we, ah, don’t always have the best reputation around here.”

Dmitry brushed a sweaty strand of hair out of his face. “Why’s that?”

Pyotr shrugged. “Does prejudice need a reason?”

Ivan, a short and stocky man with a shock of red hair elbowed Dmitry and mimed downing a bottle. “The French are just mad we can drink them under the table.”

“And then we steal the table,” gibed Mikhail, a dark-haired man with a pointed chin who had once been a university professor in Moscow.

“So, do you all speak French?” Dmitry asked, catching a canteen of water from Ivan. He sniffed the contents before drinking, just to be sure.

Pyotr made an uncertain hand gesture. “To varying degrees. I’m just about fluent, as is Mikhail, of course. Ivan likes to think he is, but he’s absolutely incoherent when he gets a drop of vodka in him. And Ilia…”

Ilia, who had stayed mostly silent until now, laughed bitterly. He was older, possibly 40, and wiry, and there was a hardness in his eyes that Dmitry immediately recognized as belonging to a soldier. “I can understand the French pigs, but I’m not talking to them any more than I have to,” he said darkly.

“Yes we know, you’re very dramatic,” Ivan remarked dryly. “And you wonder why the others don’t care for you.”

Ilia rolled his eyes and walked around to the cab of the truck to speak to the driver. Once this truck carried the last of the day’s cargo away, they would be free to go.

Dmitry wiped his face with the handkerchief Anya had stuffed in his pocket that morning. He had long since shucked his jacket, shirt and tie, and now wore the uniform of his compatriots: white undershirt with suspenders clipped to dark trousers. His shoes would have to be traded in for more sensible boots, though. Anya had talked him into wearing the nice pair Vlad had procured for him in Paris, to “make a good impression.” He grew sad and more than a little homesick at the thought of his old friend.

He had been meaning to write to him, but wasn’t quite sure what to say. Wasn’t sure where to even address a letter to, actually. There hadn’t been time to say goodbye to Vlad before he left, though he was sure Vlad would have assumed he’d be with Anya. Maybe tonight he would draft a letter and send it to the Dowager Empress, and just hope she’s kind enough to forward it to him.

“Alright lads, here’s the day’s pot,” said Pyotr, counting out the bills in his hand. “Busy afternoon, so you’ll have something nice to take home to the missus, Dmitry.”

He pocketed his francs: three francs for a half day’s work was not bad at all. He could pick up a good cut of meat from the butcher on his way home. “I think she’ll just be thrilled I found a job.”

Mikhail raised a sly brow. “She’ll be real... _appreciative_ , then?”

Ivan wolf whistled, jostling Dmitry’s shoulders from behind as they left the dock. “Tell us all about that appreciation tomorrow, Sudayev. Let this poor, single man live vicariously.”

Dmitry smirked and shrugged the man off. “Go find a grindhouse. Unless you’ve been banned already for yanking it in the back row.”

For a second Dmitry worried he had gone too far, but then the other men roared with laughter, jeering and thumping Dmitry on the back. Ivan ducked under Pyotr’s arm, walking backward as he jabbed a finger at Dmitry with that shit-eating grin.

“Look at the stupid expression on his face. The new boy is getting lucky tonight!”

He wouldn’t be, but Ivan’s gibes brought a flush to his neck anyway. He and Anya (well, mostly Dmitry) had decided to wait until he found a job before going down to the Catholic Church for a marriage certificate. As impatient as he was to finally (truthfully) call her his wife, he was adamant that he would not be providing “Unemployed” as his _Rang, Etat ou Profession_ on the marriage register. Now he wouldn’t have to. And thank God for that— it had been a week of cold baths as he tested the limits of how badly a man could want a woman without losing his damn mind. Rain or shine, they were paying the pastor a visit tomorrow.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was dark by the time Dmitry trudged up the stairs to his and Anya’s apartment, lugging a pound of beef and a sack of potatoes under his arm. It had only been a half day of work at the dock, but he was sore and exhausted, and the sweat dripping down his back had turned cold and clammy in the cooler night air. Still, he had made money, and he was pretty sure he had made a few friends as well. His uneasiness about all the Russian immigrants in Marseille remained, but he was glad at least to talk and joke with people who could understand him. He hadn’t said as much to Anya, but it had been slightly maddening this week, following her around like a puppy who couldn’t be trusted not to wander off and get lost. It was lonely, walking around in a sea of unfamiliar voices.

Dmitry juggled the parcels with one arm while trying to find the key that had fallen to the bottom of his bag, beneath the jacket and shirt he had balled up and stuffed inside. Finally, he found the sucker, but before he could fit the key in the lock, the door swung open.

“Dmitry! Are you happy to see me?”

The key clattered to the floor as he stood, slack jawed, staring at his old friend. “Vlad?”

Vlad Popov grinned, leaning jauntily against the doorframe. Behind him, Dmitry could see Anya and Countess Lily sitting and drinking out of mugs at the kitchen table.

“What? How...What are you doing here?” He managed, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was in the hall. “ _Should_ you be here?”

“Are you going to stand there and ask questions or are you going to come in and greet us properly?” Lily called from the kitchen, to Anya’s muffled laughter.   
Vlad grasped Dmitry’s arm and pulled him inside, and then enveloped him in a bear hug. “I’ve missed you, my friend!” The older man said, clapping him on the back heartily.

“It’s been barely over a week, Vlad,” Dmitry muttered against his friend’s shoulder, but couldn’t help the smile growing on his face. “I’ve missed you too.”

Lily had left her seat at the table to pull Vlad away, offering her hand with a wry smile to Dmitry, who bowed and kissed her hand, to the Countess’s apparent delight. “Is the Dowager here?” He asked, looking around their small apartment as if Anya had hidden her grandmother in a broom cupboard.

“No, Her Majesty doesn’t travel, and it wouldn’t be wise for her to do so anyway. People would talk, see,” Lily said, casting a sidelong look to Vlad. “So she sent us to act as her representatives. No one cares if we disappear for a few days.”

“Representatives for what?”

Anya crossed the apartment to him and took his arm, beaming up at him. Her face looked different— somehow rosier. And...shimmery? “They’re here for our wedding, Dmitry! And look, Nana sent us rings.”

She lay her palm flat for him to inspect the two burnished silver bands. He picked up the larger of the two rings, slipping it experimentally onto his finger. It fit snuggly but not uncomfortably, and he had to twist the ring with some effort to remove it. Truth be told, he hadn’t even spared a thought toward wedding bands. Neither of his parents wore them, and he would have sold such a thing the moment he got his hands on it back in Petersburg.

“She wanted to send you your great-grandmother’s diamond ring, but Vlad thought it might...attract attention,” Lily said to Anya.

Dmitry snorted in agreement. “It would have. But this—” he placed the ring back in Anya’s palm. “Is perfect. Tell her thank you, Lily, when you see her again.”

“Oh,” Anya exclaimed, finally taking notice of the food Dmitry still carried. “Good, we’re starving. Vlad and Lily got here an hour ago, and I had just barely taken off my hat…”

She made to unwrap the meat but Vlad whisked it away with a flourish. “I have a recipe in mind, _ma chérie_. Go sit. Tell Dmitry about your new job!”

“Your new job?” Dmitry repeated, taking Anya’s hand and leading her to the table. “Where is it?”

“Le Bon Marche, the department store down by the cathedral,” she supplied, gesturing for Lily to join them at the table. “I was able to bluff my way into the position.”

“A...department store?”

“Very large shops that sell all sorts of nice things,” Lily exclaimed, sipping at her tea. “Dresses, jewelry, bedding, washing machines…”

His head tipped to the side. “They have all of that in one shop?”

“Yes! I’ll be selling cosmetics and fragrances. The manager said I have a certain _je ne sais quoi_ that would attract wealthy customers. I wonder why…”

A salesgirl in a posh shop was a far cry from a textile mill worker— Dmitry breathed a sigh of relief. When he leaned in to plant a kiss on her cheek to congratulate her, he could see why she looked different to him. “You’re wearing paint,” he said, swiping a finger across her eyelid and looking at the shimmery pink residue that was left behind.

“Makeup,” she corrected. “They can’t have a bare-faced girl selling cosmetics, can they? But you’re right, I’ll think of it as my war paint.”

“Anya!” Vlad called from the pantry. “Anya, where is your rosemary?”

She rolled her eyes. “We don’t have any, Vlad.”

He whipped around to look at her incredulously. “No rosemary? What about thyme?”

Dmitry rose from his seat while Anya and Lily laughed, grabbing the salt and pepper shakers from the table. He shoved the salt into Vlad’s hand— “Option one,” he said, and then the pepper, “Option two.”

“Fine,” Vlad threw his head back dramatically, stalking over to the counter. “The night before my oldest friend's wedding in the culinary capital of the world, and we’re eating steak with _salt and pepper_.”

 


	5. Litany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyone else hear wedding bells?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note on the use of (truly terrible) French in this story: for the most part, I’ll only write out the French when the chapter is in Dmitry’s POV, since he doesn’t know the language and is sort of in the dark when people are talking in French around him. Conversations in French in Anya’s POV chapters will usually be written out in English, since she’s fluent. 
> 
> I play fast and loose with Roman Catholic marriage rites. Don't tell my mom.

 

 

Anya had imagined her wedding day often. As a child, she dreamed of marrying a dashing prince in a grand cathedral, draped in white silk and lace, a diamond tiara tucked snuggly atop her head. Her groom didn’t usually have any discernible features in her daydreams, other than being tall and charming, though there was a short period of time in her early teenaged years in which she liked to imagine herself the bride of a rogue American cowboy. Her father would walk her down the aisle, giving her away with a smile and a kiss to the cheek. Thousands of spectators would cheer as she and her faceless groom were whisked away in a horse-drawn carriage to their honeymoon on the Adriatic Sea.

As a young woman, wandering cold and nameless across Russia, these dreams didn’t fade. If anything, her imagination supplied only grander and more outlandish details to keep herself warm— she would be draped head to toe in pearls, doves perched on every chandelier, champagne flowed in waterfalls at the reception… On the bitterly cold nights when she had nothing in her stomach, images of a lavish candle-lit feast sustained her.

Now, Anya had little use for silk and lace, and diamonds only tempted thieves and ruffians. Her father would not walk her down the aisle, would never smile and kiss her cheek. The only people in attendance would be Vlad and Lily, and there would be no cathedral, no carriage.

But her prince finally had a face. He was real and tangible and loved her. Which, strangely, was never something she thought about much when she imagined her wedding day. And yet, nothing else seemed to matter now. When they had parted ways for work early that morning after signing the necessary paperwork at town hall, Dmitry had laced their fingers together and kissed her hand, saying _“I can’t wait for you to be my wife.”_

So, no, she didn’t need diamonds. But she could do with an extra hour or two to do her damn hair. In another life, the entire day leading up to the ceremony would have been spent primping and preening with her mother and sisters. A battalion of maids would have bathed and brushed and powdered her to as close to perfection as humanly possible. Today, she would be lucky if her manager turned his back for five minutes so she could apply the lipstick she was selling. Even exiled princesses had to work Saturday half shifts.

“Miss, where can I find children’s shoes?”

Anya plastered on what she hoped was a charming smile for the wealthy woman in a mink stole standing before her. For the last four hours, she had been at her counter on the second floor of Le Bon Marche in only the most literal sense; her mind was several blocks away, in a little Catholic parish tucked away on Rue Paradis.

“Third floor, Madame. Take the stairs, and shoes will be on your left.”

Once the shopper was gone, Anya peeked at her pocket watch under the counter. A quarter past one. Her shift would end at two, and then she’d have thirty minutes to walk to St. Joseph’s and get ready before the ceremony. Roman Catholicism was the closest to Russian Orthodoxy they would find in Marseille, apart from the small Orthodox congregation that met in an immigrant priest’s house near 17 Rue Saint-Antoine. The Luzhkovs attended those services regularly, and they were still under the impression that Anya and Dmitry were already married. Mama would roll in her grave if she knew, but a Catholic priest would have to do.

Lily was going to meet her at the church to help her change into the white frock she had bought and hid from Dmitry a day after arriving in Marseille. It didn’t exactly rival her mother’s jewel-encrusted wedding gown, but it had fluttering sleeves and a touch of beading, with pearlescent buttons running the length of her back. It wasn’t the grandest dress Dmitry will have seen her wear, but she had a feeling it would be his favorite.

The silken nightgown Lily had given her for their wedding night might be a close second, and she was itching to wear it for him. True to his word, Dmitry had barely touched her at all that week, aside from kisses that were a little too _tame_ for Anya’s taste. She had tried, unsuccessfully, to convince him that there were other things they could do, while still saving something for their wedding night. He had quickly concealed his flustered, slack-jawed gape with a smirk, kissed her forehead, and told her firmly “Goodnight, Anya.” The vivid blush creeping up his neck afterward had been only _slightly_ satisfying.

A silent thrill worked through her at the thought of Dmitry’s face later this afternoon, watching her with that look he must save purely to frustrate her. Stooping to look in the mirror on the counter, Anya dipped her finger in the sample pot of tawny eyeshadow she had been hawking earlier. As she had told a harried-looking woman with cornflower eyes this morning, “Neutrals make blue eyes sparkle.” Hers were going to light up the church.

From the mirror, Anya saw Monsieur Gauthier round the corner into the cosmetics department. She snapped to attention, clicking the cosmetics case shut. Her manager was a tall, angular man with sharp features and an even sharper tongue. Though accommodating to Anya thus far, he had given quite the verbal lashing to the sales girls down in Home Furnishings that morning. Apparently, someone had made sloppy work of the linens display.

“ _Monsieur_ ,” she greeted, inclining her head. “The Rubinstein lipstick is selling well today. I’m glad we’re getting a new shipment tomorrow.”

Gauthier held out a hand. “Good. Could I see the ledger, please.”

She passed the book to him, holding her breath as he parsed through the pages, adjusting his reading glasses to study her small script. If she didn’t meet his sales goal, he could deny her early leave until she sold the rest of her stock.

Gauthier nodded, not looking up from the ledger. “Very nice. I see the Maybelline will need a restock as well. No perfumes sold today?”

“No, Monsieur, but a young lady was very interested in our Chanel and says she will return tomorrow to purchase it.”

He nodded again, shutting the ledger and tucking it under his arm. “Your shift ends at one-thirty?”

“Two, sir.”

“One-thirty,” he repeated, pocketing his reading glasses with a wink. “You’ve done very well your first couple days. Your husband will be glad to see you home early today.”

She grinned, reaching for her purse on the floor. “Thank you, Monsieur. I think he will too.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Let’s go over it one more time.”

Vlad chuckled, shaking his head. “Dmitry, you do know you just have to repeat what the priest says, right? You don’t actually need to memorize anything.”

“I know, but I want to pronounce it right,” said Dmitry, jiggling his leg so hard the pew kneeler shook. “Just...how does it go? One more time.”

Lily had left twenty minutes ago to help Anya dress in the church vestry, and the priest would be finishing his mid-day confessions soon. The clenching in his stomach was somewhere between anxiety and excitement, with a dash of annoyance as Vlad made his bemusement at his young friend’s discomfort wildly obvious.

“ _Pour avoir et tenir de ce jour vers l'avant_ — but honestly Dmitry, you can just mumble your way through it. This priest is a thousand and two years old; he’s not going to— Father!”

  
Dmitry turned in the pew to see Father Bernier shuffling down the aisle. He stood up, following Vlad’s lead and bowing slightly. The old man was drowning in ornate robes of green, a heavy cross pendant hanging from his neck.

 _“Sommes-nous prêts Père?”_ Vlad asked.

The priest made a noise in the back of his throat that could have meant anything, but he continued his slow descent down the aisle, so Vlad and Dmitry shrugged and followed in tow. It was a small church, with seven pews on each side of the aisle and none of the stained glass or statues he figured were staples in Catholic churches. A white tarp was thrown over the organ in the corner. Dmitry’s heart sank a fraction, realizing there would be no music at this small affair.

 _“Hardly a wedding at all without music, Dima,”_ his father would have said. _“God is in the music.”_

Vlad and Father Bernier were speaking in low tones when the chapel door creaked open. Lily stood in the doorway, catching Vlad’s attention to mouth _“Almost ready.”_

Vlad nodded and held up a finger, turning to Dmitry for confirmation. Dmitry tugged at his tie, another loan from Vlad. He took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his hands as he steadied himself. “Ok. Yes.”

Vlad stepped in front of him, wetting a thumb in his mouth to wipe away a spot on Dmitry’s cheek. Dmitry rolled his eyes but didn’t shove him off. Vlad gave him a small, quiet smile, the fine lines around his eyes crinkling. Something that could have been tears shimmered in his eyes.

“I’m proud of you, my friend.”

Dmitry embraced him, this surrogate father and closest friend. How did he ever think he could have married without Vlad standing with him?  “I’m glad you’re here, Vlad.”

When he stepped back, Vlad clasped his hand, shaking it once firmly. “You’re ready, Dmitry.”

He supposed he was.

With a final nod and beckon from Vlad, Lily stepped to the side to open the chapel door. The church was on a busy street near the docks, and the bustling of Saturday crowds and the cries of gulls had been clear just moments ago, but all sounds seemed to freeze and dull when Anya stepped over the threshold, looking for all the world like a figment from his dream.

She was wearing white, and something on her dress shone and caught the light as she moved. There were little blue flowers in her hair. Flowers he distinctly remembered her picking while they rested in a field, a few hours outside Paris. But her eyes… those eyes caught his and wouldn’t let them go, smiling that brilliant, _Anya_ smile. Out of the corner of his eye, Dmitry could see Vlad looking over at him, chuckling. He must have been grinning like an idiot— not that he found it in him to care.

Unbidden, the melody to her music box lullaby sprang to his lips in a soft hum as she walked down the aisle. The sound echoed in the silent church, and her smile widened, practically glowing.

 _God is in the music — _she would make a devout man of him yet.

When Anya reached the front of the church, Lily took her hands and kissed her on each cheek before retreating to the first row pew with Vlad. The priest gestured for them to kneel at the _Prie-dieux_ while he flipped through the liturgical missal. Dmitry looked sideways at Anya, bumping her shoulder.

“You look beautiful,” he said under his breath, as the priest began the Mass. He didn’t have to look to know she was blushing beside him.

He had never been to a Catholic Mass before, and he was just delighted to find that they were just as long as the services his father took him to in St. Petersburg. He understood none of it, of course, but echoed Anya’s responses when he could, when he tore his eyes away from her long enough to remember he was supposed to be participating.

An eternity later (or perhaps just an hour), Anya rose from her kneeler and gestured for him to do the same. Vlad came forward with the rings. “Showtime,” he whispered in Dmitry’s ear as he passed to stand next to the priest.

Father Bernier raised his hands shakily, speaking in rapid French that Vlad quietly translated for Dmitry.

“Do you come here to enter into marriage without coercion, willingly and wholeheartedly?”

They both replied. _“Oui.”_

“Are you prepared, as you follow the path of marriage, to love and honor each other for as long as you both shall live?”

_“Oui.”_

“Are you prepared to accept children lovingly from God and to bring them up according to the law of Christ and his Church?”

_“Oui.”_

Vlad handed the smaller of the two rings to Dmitry. He cleared his throat, running through the responses in his head. He turned to face Anya, taking her hands and squeezing once, gently. She looked at him with so much love it made his chest ache.

 _“Moi, Dmitry, je te prend Anya.”_ The priest spoke, nodding to Dmitry.

He took a deep breath. _“Moi, Dmitry, je te prend Anya,”_ he repeated after the priest, pronouncing each word slowly, yet barely understanding his own wedding vows. He pursed his lips, shifting his weight from one leg to another.

_“Pour être mon épouse.”_

The words tasted like cotton, dry and formless in his mouth. _“Pour être mon épouse.”_

_“Pour avoir et tenir de ce jour vers l'avant.”_

_“Pour avoir et…”_ He paused, running his tongue over dry lips. Anya’s brow knitted in concern at his growing frustration, mouthing the words she probably thought he had forgotten.

He started again. _“Pour avoir et tenir de ce jour_ — No.”

He shook his head, turning to Vlad in exasperation. “Not like this. Ask him if I can do it in Russian, please.”

Vlad relayed his request and the priest considered it for a moment before he nodded, gesturing for Dmitry to continue. He breathed a sigh of relief, straightening to face her resolutely, in their own language, in words borrowed from the faith of their childhood. She stared back at him with lights in her eyes. Lights to lead him back home.

“I, Dmitry, take you, Anya, as my wedded wife,” he started, reaching back in his memories for the traditional vows.

“I promise you my unconditional love, honor, and respect. I promise to be faithful to you, and not to forsake you until death separates us.” He paused, his father’s voice chiming in with his own inside his head, “So help me God, one in the Holy Trinity and all the Saints.”

Tears were brimming in her eyes as he slid the silver ring onto her fourth finger. The priest looked to Anya. _“En français, ou …?”_

“I’ll do it in Russian,” she said firmly, clutching Dmitry’s hand with a vice grip. She repeated his vows back to him with a fierceness in her voice, as if daring fate to challenge her. In the front pew, Lily was freely weeping, and even Vlad was dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief.

Once the rings had been exchanged, the priest rambled on in French for several more minutes, though Dmitry’s eyes never left Anya’s. The silver ring felt heavy on his hand. Substantial. Finally, the priest led them in the sign of the cross and gave them his first smile of the afternoon. Dmitry leaned to the side to whisper to Vlad.

“Did he say kiss the bride?”

“That’s not really a practice in French services…”

In a moment of pure impulse, Dmitry shrugged and pulled Anya to him anyway, her arms wrapping around his neck as their lips met for a modest kiss that nonetheless sent heat shooting down his limbs. The priest cleared his throat, and Dmitry ignored him for a few seconds longer, relishing the feel of his wife in his arms. When they broke away, Father Bernier was staring at them with the barest hint of a smile left, one eyebrow raised.

_“Fini?”_

Anya laughed, wiping traces of lipstick from the corner of his mouth. _“Oui.”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Anya walked arm in arm with her new husband down the cobblestone street, trailing behind Lily and Vlad on their way home from the restaurant— Lily had treated them to dinner at what must have been the finest establishment in Marseille. Anya didn’t know what she had enjoyed more, her own meal or watching Dmitry devour his with joyful abandon.

Twilight cast long shadows on the street before them, and the whitewashed brick buildings lining either side glowed orange under the street lamps. A few meters ahead, Vlad and Lily spoke in hushed voices. Anya tilted her head to rest against Dmitry’s shoulder.

“Tired?” He asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “We’ve had a long day.”

“Hardly. I’m not done with you yet, Sudayev,” she teased, catching her tongue between her teeth in a mischievous grin.

He glanced down at her, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Are you sure? A long night’s sleep will do you good, _Madame_ Sudayeva.”

“I agree, but I’m so restless,” she said slowly, lowering her voice so their friends would not overhear. “You’ll have to tire me out first.”

“Christ, woman,” he muttered, stopping them in the middle of the street to kiss her soundly. She laughed against his mouth, nipping his bottom lip before ducking under his arm and skipping away to catch up with Vlad and Lily. She risked a glance over her shoulder, stifling a giggle at the look on his face as he jogged after her.

“It’s been an exciting day,” she said, looping her arm with Lily’s and throwing a playful grin at Dmitry. “I can’t wait to curl up and go to bed.”

He raked a hand through his hair, mouthing something that suspiciously resembled the word _“terrible.”_ Lily watched the two of them with bemusement, while Vlad choked down a cough.

“ _Sweetheart_ ,” Lily said to Vlad with a meaningful look. “Let’s take the long way to the hotel, by the water.”

Vlad winked, none so subtly. “Grand idea, _darling_. If we’re lucky, maybe we’ll see a mugging by the docks.”

Lily braced Anya’s hands with both of hers, kissing her cheeks. “This is goodbye then, my dear,” she said, gathering Anya into a hug. “Your grandmother is so happy for you. And I am too, Your Highness.”

Anya felt tears stinging her eyes again. She wiped them away, hugging Lily tighter. “Thank you for being here. It means so much.”

After Lily stepped aside to say goodbye to Dmitry, Vlad wrapped her in a bear hug, lifting her several inches off the ground. She squealed with laughter, kissing him on the cheek.

“You will write to us, won’t you, Vlad?” She asked once he had set her down, taking his hand. “And visit when you can?”

“Of course! We’ll never be far away, Anya. Though I think your husband might want to keep you to himself for a little while yet...”

“Good _night_ , Vlad,” Dmitry groaned, but he smiled good-naturedly when Vlad beckoned him in for a hug as well.

Anya felt a slight tug at her arm and turned around to see Lily slip something small and wrapped in paper inside Anya’s purse. The older woman lifted her eyebrows and nodded seriously, patting Anya’s arm. “There’s no rush for children, if you’re not ready,” she said, glancing pointedly at the package. “Their distribution isn’t strictly legal in France, but they’re not too difficult to procure…”

Realizing what was in the package, Anya blushed and thanked Lily quietly. She and Dmitry had discussed children, of course, but only in the far-off, wishful tone that one might use to express interest in going windsurfing. Certainly she’d like to try, but not right now.

They watched Lily and Vlad disappear down the darkening side street, and then they were alone. Nervous energy churned in the pit of her stomach. There was a sudden quiet— fragile and anticipatory, the heavy minutes before the sky breaks open in thunderous rain.

Dmitry cleared his throat. “Shall we?” He asked, offering his arm.

She nodded, curling her hand around his elbow. Most shops had shuttered for the evening and the street was mostly empty, aside from an older couple out for a stroll on the other side. An open-bed truck rolled past, laborers perched on the rails.

“How was work?” Anya said, after a few minutes walking in silence.

He jerked, as if pulled from a great depth. “What? Oh, it was...long.”

“Only five hours.”

“Which feels like forever when you’re waiting for something.”

She smirked, looking up at him through her lashes. “Oh? Waiting for what?”

He sighed, gazing off dreamily. “That filet at dinner— Ow!” He chuckled, rubbing his arm where she had shoved him. “I mean it, my mouth fell open when I first saw it. That steak was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I now pronounce you man and filet,” she said, holding her arms aloft grandly. “You may devour the bride.”

Dmitry snorted, looping an arm around her waist and miming gnawing at her cheek like a piece of meat. Between squeaks of laughter, Anya swatted at his chest. He caught her hand in mid-air and kissed the back of it, stroking his thumb over her wrist.

His jovial grin faded, replaced with earnestness. She froze, mesmerized by the sudden softness in his eyes.

“You have my heart, Anya,” he said quietly, his eyes flickering across her face. “I think it’s been yours since I was ten years old. And I don’t have the words to tell you how happy I am that I’ve found you again.”

She collected his words greedily, tucking them away for safekeeping so she could touch the feel of them later, after the euphoria had passed and her senses were no longer numb.

She surged forward, kissing him greedily in response. His lips followed like a starving man, licking into her mouth with abandon as he backed her out of the street and against the wall of a shop, the thud of her head against the brick gentled by his hand. She pulled him to press tighter against her center, and he groaned, the sound reverbing behind her teeth. Her ears rang with the ache for oxygen, and finally they broke away, gasping and still hungry.

Her arms remained wrapped around his neck, and she tugged him back down to murmur breathlessly into his ear, “If we go home now, you won’t need to use words.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be aware that the rating will probably stay at T or M throughout, but the next chapter is definitely *explicit*. So feel free to skip right over the next installment-- you won't miss any plot. Just sexy times.


	6. The little death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding night shenanigans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content advisory: Explicit. Read responsibly. 
> 
> This one got away from me, guys. I'll admit I'm a little nervous to post...I've never written a sex scene this...detailed before, but I felt I owed it to them before the shit starts hitting the fan. More on that later. 
> 
> Feedback is lovely <3

 

 

Anya’s hand shook violently, fumbling with the key to unlock their apartment door— though not out of nerves. It was just a little difficult to concentrate with Dmitry’s mouth attached firmly to the her throat, his arms circling her from behind. They had practically sprinted up the stairs of their building, doing little to conceal their laughter from the other tenants already tucked in for the night. The key slipped from her grasp and she groaned, bending to pick it up.

“Clumsy,” he laughed, running a hand down her arm as she finally, finally wrestled the door open.

She turned around to capture his mouth in another kiss as they stumbled their way to the bedroom. Once they were over the threshold, he buried his head in her neck, raking his hands down her back while minding the delicate buttons. Every nerve ending in her body wanted him, and if the look in his eyes was any indication, the feeling was mutual.

“I should— I should take this off,” she panted, elongating her neck as Dmitry’s mouth worked its way to her collarbone.

He chuckled against the skin of her clavicle, sending goosebumps flaring down her arms. “I agree.”

“I mean, I have a nightgown, a— a gift from Lily.”

He lifted his head, revealing blown pupils. His neck and ears were blooming red, and Anya had the sudden desire to feel with her mouth whether his skin was as warm as it looked.

“Wear it tomorrow night,” he mumbled, his hands sliding over the dip of her waist to rest at her hips.

He kissed her again, flicking his tongue out to meet hers with a groan. The kiss was slow, languid, though the press of him against her thigh was anything but patient. His hands wandered to the back of her neck, where the row of buttons began. With deft hands, he made quick work of her fastenings. She broke away from the kiss, gasping, desire making her blood run hot. Anya latched on to the skin just below his ear, working it gently between her teeth.

He cursed through clenched teeth, finally slipping the straps of her dress off her shoulders. The silken fabric slid down, catching at her hips before it pooled to the floor, leaving her in her plain white slip and stockings. With heat in his eyes, he reached forward to cup the back of her head with one hand while the other wrapped around her waist, bunching the soft fabric under his fingers while he kissed her.

In turn, she shoved his jacket off his shoulders, and went to work straightaway on his shirt and tie, pulling away from his searching mouth to catch her breath and concentrate on her task.

“Anya,” he groaned, returning his lips to her throat. He suckled on the skin there so hard she gasped, and she knew it would bruise.

Finally, his shirt was undone and promptly thrown to the floor as her eyes scanned his chest hungrily. She smiled and traced a finger from collarbone to belly button, delighting in the trembling of abdominals under skin and the goosebumps left behind. Her other hand circled his bicep, feeling the smooth skin taut over muscle.

“I hope you don’t mind that I’m staring,” she whispered, flattening her palms against his chest.

His adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow. He shook his head. “Not at all. That’s what I’m here for.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that _all_ you’re here for?”

He chuckled, pushing her backwards with his body until she felt the edge of the bed against the back of her knees. “I can be hands on, too, if that’s what you want.”

She lowered herself onto the bed, keeping her feet on her floor and leaning back on her elbows. “I want you to touch me,” she said, her stare unwavering.

He smirked, toeing off his shoes and kicking them to a corner. His hands fluttered to her hips.

“You’re going to have to be more specific. Where?”

“Everywhere.”

“Greedy,” he murmured, lifting one foot to unbuckle her white shoe, and then the other. He smiled at her slyly as his hands feathered up her stockinged legs, sliding under her slip. She squirmed on the bed, wanting desperately for him to move his hands up and inward or just to remove the damn slip. Instead, she heard the snap of her stockings unclipped from their garter straps.

Slowly, patiently, he rolled the stockings down her legs, kissing her skin as it was bared to him. She sighed, her eyes briefly flickering shut of their own accord. He placed a final kiss on the top of her foot, gazing down at her with so much love and affection and _desire_ it made her heart hammer against her chest. She held her arms out, beckoning him to join her on the bed.

“Come here, I want to kiss you,” she said, the slight edge of regal command in her voice surprising even her.  
He obeyed dutifully, lowering himself with his still-clothed legs bracing her on either side. His kiss was slow, drawing out her moans as his tongue lazily skimmed her mouth before descending down her jaw and throat.

“Can I take this off?” He asked, gathering the hem of her slip in his hand. She nodded eagerly, and in a moment he had it pulled over the top of her head. His hands flew to her spartan brassiere, unlatching the clasps hastily. And then she was totally bare, save for the cotton knickers that were becoming damper by the minute. Their eyes met, and any hesitation or shame she might have felt about her body immediately dissipated.

“Christ,” he sat up, raking his eyes over her, lingering on her breasts— his hands quickly following suit to stroke and squeeze experimentally. “You are so beautiful, Anya.”

His eyes were nearly black now, and he ducked his head to take one nipple in his mouth, laving it with his tongue. She cried out, pleasure making her vision go white.

“Dmitry,” she gasped, his thumb moving in lazy circles around her other nipple before his mouth joined to tug on the hardened bud. Her hands clenched the quilt beneath her, wriggling to try and relieve some of the pressure building below her waist. His mouth on her breast, the sound of his tongue lapping against her, his hands roaming the expanse of her stomach— it was overwhelming, yet simultaneously not enough.

“I need...I need…” she whimpered, scrambling to pull his face up to look at her.

“I know,” he said, breathing heavily and rocking forward to kiss her solidly on the mouth. “I want to make this good for you.”

“It _is_ good,” she whined, reaching down to tug at his belt.

He swatted her hand away, jostling her to scoot further up the bed. He dropped lazy kisses between her breasts, on her ribs, over the soft skin of her hips.

“I want to make it _better_.”

Her legs immediately fell open to accommodate him as he kneeled between them. She wasn’t a child; she had an idea of what he had in mind, and the anticipation was sending her brain in a thousand different directions, eventually all converging on one single point— Dmitry, hooking his fingers under the sides of her knickers and sliding them down her legs.

“I’m going to touch you,” he said, looking up at her in earnest. “But you have to promise you’ll tell me if you don’t like something I do, or if I’m hurting you, OK?”

She nodded eagerly, inching her fingers down the quilt restlessly. A warmth was spreading from the ache in her core, urged onward by the intensity in his voice. “Yes, yes, I promise.”

His calloused fingers skimmed over the skin of her thigh, curling his hand around her leg to spread her wider for him. He tore his eyes away from the apex of her thighs to glance up at her with a roguish smile.

“And you have to tell me when you like something, too.”

Her reply died on her lips when he bent his head and gentled her outer lips apart to lick the length of her before settling on the swollen bud of her clitoris and sucking gently.

She yelped, clamping a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. Her senses buzzed, raw and bright and sharp all around her as he continued to lap at her in earnest.

“Dmitry, oh my God, that feels—”

He looked up, at the same time adding a finger to trail up her wetness before sinking inside her. She moaned, her head falling back to the bed.

“Come on, finish that sentence,” he goaded, though she could tell he was watching her reactions carefully as he eased his finger in and out, adding another to stretch her. “How does that feel?”

“Fucking amazing,” she admitted breathlessly, the heat from his eyes burning her from the inside out.

He grinned, satisfied with the expletive, the compliment, or both, and lowered his head to return his mouth to her. His fingers continued thrusting, a little faster, a little deeper, and she felt a sort of shiver spark at her center, growing warmer and wider as he gripped her thigh with his other hand tightly, almost certain to leave a mark.

She had touched herself before, of course, but it had never felt like this. Never like she was being unmade and rebuilt again and again. The pressure mounted, something inside her being pulled so taut it would surely snap.

“Oh, right there! _Dima—_ ” the words evaporated on her tongue when he curled his fingers inside her and sucked hard, shivers ratcheting into an earthquake that shook her to her bones and everywhere in between. She cried out his name, arching off the bed and trembling from the heat of a sun coursing its way through her veins. He continued to lick into her insistently, and then slowly, to bring her back to earth.

She was still shuddering with hypnic aftershocks when he withdrew, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and staring at her with a mix of awe and raw desire.

“You’re incredible,” he breathed, climbing up the bed to lie beside her, nuzzling her throat with his nose.

She laughed, slightly wrecked. “That’s my line, I think.”

He kissed her, slow and soft, while her heartbeat returned to a more normal cadence.

Her hands drifted down to his pants, and she could feel the insistent strain of his cock against the fabric. “These,” she said between kisses, “need to come off.”

As soon as the words left her lips, he was on his feet, hastily fumbling with his belt. She sat up and moved to the edge of the bed, watching him undress with desire as well as pure curiosity. She had seen glimpses of naked men while working at the hospital, but never up close and certainly never in a state of arousal. His trousers were pushed to the floor, followed shortly by his underwear. And then he was naked, arms slightly up and outstretched as if to say _“Well?”_

_Interesting._

She wrinkled her brow, tilting her head at the anatomy before her. “It’s bigger than I thought.”

He looked down at himself and back up to her in disbelief. “ _It’s bigger than—_? What’s that supposed to mean?” He sputtered, clearly not expecting that reaction.

She rose up on her knees, taking his hands reassuringly. “It’s not a bad thing! I don’t mind if it’s big!”

“What? That’s not what—” he rubbed his hands over his face, letting out a breathy chuckle. She didn’t quite understand what was so funny, but his smile eased her concern that she had offended him. “OK, nevermind. Sure, yes, my... _parts_ are satisfactory, then?”

Her eyes roved over the rest of him, following the sharp V of his hips and the curvature of muscular legs. He was beautiful— calloused and scarred and strong. An idea came to her head and she grinned.

“Turn,” she said, waving a commanding finger in the air.

He gave her an exasperated look. “Really?”

“ _Turn."_

With a sigh, he complied, facing away so his back was to her, hands on hips. “Happy?”

She studied his backside, admiring the ripples of his shoulders and back and— yes, her suspicions were confirmed.

“You have a fantastic ass, Dmitry.”

He turned around quickly, and the tips of his ears burned scarlet.

“Satisfied?”

“Very.”

He looked down briefly, and Anya followed his eyes to his erection, still hard and angry and very present. She licked her lips, suppressing the inexplicable urge to wrap her lips around him. _That_ would have to wait.

Their eyes met. She was still kneeling on the bed, but she could feel the heat radiating off of him. Her head was cloudy, dazed now with need.

“I want you,” she blurted, and again, softer, “I just want you.”

Without breaking eye contact, he climbed onto the bed, pushing her gently backward so she landed on her elbows, him crouching above her. Anya grabbed his hand and kissed each finger in turn. His breath came out in a shaky sigh, ducking his head to kiss her chin, her forehead, the shell of her ear. Slowly, his hands trailed down her chest, trembling against her stomach and hips. He had already touched her all over, already brought her to a shattering orgasm, and yet he was staring down at her as if seeing her for the first time.

“You’re shaking,” she murmured, stilling his hand at her waist.

“I suppose I’m a little nervous,” he admitted, his thumb stroking her cheek.

Her eyes widened. She hadn’t paused to consider Dmitry’s nerves. “I thought— I thought you had experience with...this.”

He exhaled a short laugh. “I have experience with sex. Not so much with intimacy. I’ve never done this with someone I love before. It's...different.”

Somehow, his confession made her own nervous energy flicker and fade. She wound her arms around his back, pulling him flush against her. The length of him was hard and hot against her stomach.

She pressing a kiss to his jaw. “I love you.”

He groaned, grinding against her experimentally. “I love you too. Fuck, I love you.”

Their lips met in another kiss, and stars sparked behind her eyelids as his movements against her became more insistent. The head of his cock nudged her clitoris and she moaned into his mouth.

She broke away, gasping. “My purse. Get my purse.”

“What?”

“Just do it!” She said impatiently, kicking his shin with her foot.

He huffed and scrambled off the bed, finding her purse by the door and reaching inside for the package Lily had given her. Understanding crossed his face and he hurried back to her, ripping open one of the wrappers. She squirmed against the sheets in anticipation, desperate for friction.

Once the condom was on, he reached up to cradle her face, kissing her once gently on the lips. “We’ll take it slow. I don’t want to hurt you.”

She nodded her consent and he settled between her open legs, swirling a finger around her slit and making her see stars. A familiar heat spread throughout her body. He took his cock in hand, sliding it between her lips, pressing slightly but not entering, not yet. He repeated this several more times, and she could have killed him.

“Dmitry, I swear to God, if you don’t—”

He pushed inside excruciatingly slow, and all the air rushed out of her. A gasp was punched from his lungs, and he stopped, breathing hard.

“Are you OK?” Dmitry asked, hissing from the strain of holding still. He trailed a shaking hand across her cheek.

Anya nodded, moving her hips slightly to adjust to the feeling. It was an unfamiliar burn, but not uncomfortable. She tilted her pelvis up, sliding him farther inside, and they both groaned.

“You can move now,” she rasped after a moment, winding her arms around his neck.

He complied immediately, pulling out and pushing back slowly in small, incremental thrusts. It wasn’t as deliriously pleasurable as his efforts earlier, but the sensation of fullness was intoxicating. She wrapped her legs around his hips, desperate to feel as much of him against her as she could, expelling any empty air left between them. Her hands slid down to his back, feeling the sinuous stretch and roll of muscle under skin.

“God, Anya,” he grunted in response, but maintained the punishingly steady pace, falling onto his elbows and burying his head into her throat. “You’re perfect. You’re so perfect for me.”

The new angle sent a lightning bolt down her body and she moaned, biting her lip.

“More?” He asked breathlessly.

“Please.”

He steadied himself on his hands and pumped into her faster, setting a rapid pace. She tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled him down for a sloppy kiss, unable to hear or feel or taste anything but _him_.

“Dima,” she keened, when his lips moved to her throat to suck and kiss open-mouthed at her skin.

At the sound of his name he shoved harder inside her, digging his fingers into her hips. “Fuck, _malysh_ ,” he groaned against her ear, panting heavily. “What do you need?”

“Touch me, like you did before— oh!” she said, crying out at another particularly deep push.

His hand flew between them, rubbing furiously where she needed it most. In seconds, her climax flared like an ember fanned to flame, washing over her with shuddering, electric waves. Her body seemed to simultaneously crumple in on itself and shatter to a thousand pieces, a star collapsing. She wrapped herself tighter around him, riding out the tremors.

His pace stuttered and he followed soon after, grunting wordlessly and thrusting a few more times before stiffening with a bitten-back moan. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, pulling out and rolling to the side so as not to crush her. “Holy fuck.”

Anya laughed breathlessly, using what little energy she had left to rest her head on his chest. “That just about sums it up.”

He kissed her damp forehead firmly before letting his head fall backwards on the mattress, still breathing heavily.

"I love you, wife of mine." 

She hummed, curling closer to him. His heartbeat pounded like a drum in her ears. Feeling was beginning to return to her hands, now ghosting over the smooth skin of his stomach.

“That tickles,” he murmured, eyes closed. “Feels good.”

She hummed, curling closer to him. Her limbs felt heavy and sated, and sleepiness tugged at her consciousness, though a non-insignificant part of her was already itching for more.

“When can we do that again?”

He groaned, muffling his chuckle in her hair. “Give a man time to breathe, will you?”

She paused. “So...an hour?”

“ _Rest,_ Anya.” 


	7. Comrades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dmitry learns more about his countrymen and is presented with an interesting proposition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honeymoon is over, folks. Time for an info dump. Let's get this show on the road.

Monday morning, Dmitry woke up sore, starving, and slightly aroused; the last of which should have been physically impossible given the sheer volume (and frankly, creativity) of sex he and Anya had had on Sunday— their paltry “honeymoon.” Besides eating and bathing, most of the day had been spent in bed (as well as next to the bed, against the wall, and an ill-advised attempt on the rickety kitchen table). It was the most deliriously blissed-out he had ever been, but Dmitry knew well enough that all good things eventually came to an end.

The sun had barely begun its ascent, but Dmitry would be due at the docks for their first shipment of the day by six o’clock. Anya still slept tucked between his arms, her head resting on the dip of his shoulder. She was so warm and soft against him, every inch of his body begged to remain entangled with hers, as if separating himself from her would rip away scar tissue that had just begun to heal.

But he was a working man now, making an honest living for the first time in his life. He finally, keenly understood the men he and Vlad used to laugh at, who complained about Mondays as if they were worse than another other miserable day. They were right— Mondays were _so_ much worse.

He tried to slip out from under Anya but stopped when she let out a sleepy whimper of protest, her brow furrowing slightly in her sleep. Slowly, he lifted Anya’s arm from his chest in an attempt to disengage without fully waking her. Instead, she tightened her grip around his middle, snuggling closer against him. He sighed and kissed her hair.

“Anya, I know you’re awake.”

Her eyes remained closed, but the twitch of a smile pulled at her lips. “No, I’m sleeping. You should be too.”

He sat up, but couldn’t help himself from running a hand down her exposed leg peeking out from beneath the covers. “I have to go to work, _milaya_. But you can sleep for a couple more hours.”

She wrapped her arms around his middle and pulled hard, sending him tumbling backward; he always forgot how strong she was.

“You don’t have to be at the docks for another hour.”

He laughed and let himself be held by her, her bare chest warm against his back. “Yes, but I have to wash and eat, and it takes 20 minutes to walk on a good day.”

“You don’t have to wash up…”

Dmitry shifted to look at her, smirking. “I definitely do. I smell like sex.”

The grin on her face as she stretched, arching like a cat, was positively devious. “That’s because we’re newlyweds. You shouldn’t be doing anything except eating, sleeping, and fucking your wife for at least another 24 hours.”

_Insatiable._

He growled, rolling over to hover above her. “That mouth of yours is going to get both of us into trouble one day.”

She stared up at him with wild eyes, widened at first with surprise, and then hunger. “Don’t you want to see how much trouble my mouth can make in ten minutes?”

His mouth went dry and a part of him vaguely wondered if it was possible to pass out as a reaction to all of the blood in his body immediately rushing to his cock.

“I don’t want to miss breakfast, but...”

“You can eat on the road.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

   
Tardiness turned out to be a non-issue when Dmitry finally arrived at the docks— both Pyotr and Ilia were late, and the rest of the crew, French and Russian, milled about aimlessly until the first ship of the day docked at port. Thirty minutes past six, Pyotr and Ilia came rushing up the gangplank to help the crew that had already begun unloading. Pyotr was out of breath, tugging at his kerchief.

 _“Désolé, je suis en retard!”_ He greeted hastily, clasping his men’s shoulders in passing as he made his way to the rear of the deck, where Mikhail and Ivan stood next to three crates they had towered onto a dolley.

Balancing a smaller crate on a hitched-up knee, Dmitry glanced over his shoulder. MIkhail and Ivan had been cagey that morning when asked about their compatriots, and the four were now huddled together in the corner, whispering among themselves. The only words he could pick out were “chatter” and “linchpin.”

The ache in his back pulled his attention back to the job at hand, and the undeniable, regrettable truth that he was getting _older_. He was turning 30 in less than a month— an age he once thought he’d never live to see. Years of neglected old injuries were going to catch up to him, and soon. He gritted his teeth and worked through the slight strain— and as hurts went, he wasn’t about to complain too much about this one.

The rest of the day passed in relative tedium, with two more smaller vessels arriving in port carrying animal feed and tobacco. Pyotr and the other Russian members of the crew quickly returned to their normal selves, needling Dmitry about the copious and rather impressive bruises stippling his throat and collarbone ( _“Are you married to a woman or a leech, Sudayev?”_ ). Even Ilia cracked a smile a time or two.

Once the last ship of the day was cleared, a sailor handed Dmitry the signed bill of service and their payment in an envelope. Dmitry found Pyotr sitting under the awning of a shed, munching on an apple, Ilia standing nearby. He tossed the envelope to the foreman, who in turn handed Dmitry an extra apple from his bag and patted the ground next to him. The sun was low in the sky, casting dusty shadows on the docks.

Dmitry bit into the apple with a loud crunch, swallowing thickly before asking casually, “So, where were you and Ilia this morning?”

Pyotr paused, shrugged. “Investigating a lead for a new shipping contract on the other side of town,” he replied smoothly. “Probably nothing will come of it, but we wanted to cover our bases.”

Dmitry maintained a blank face, though now the gears in his mind were turning. The thing about being an excellent liar was that not only could he suss out a falsehood from a mile away, but discern its shape and subtlety. And this was a lie Pyotr had donned time and time again, like a pair of dependable, weather-worn boots.

He knew well enough that everyone had their secrets. Whether illegal or romantic in nature (or both, he thought, casting a sidelong look to Ilia), Pyotr’s indiscretions were hardly Dmitry’s business. Still, he was curious.

Ivan ambled over and nudged Dmitry’s knee with his foot. “Move over, will you comrade? You’re hogging the shade.”

He scooted to make room for Ivan to sit under the awning, but a sour taste settled in his mouth. “Don’t call me that.”

“Not a fan of our benevolent Soviet leaders, comrade?” Ilia asked, leaning against the shed. He was picking casually at his nails with a dull blade, but he stood stiffly, and the muscles in his jaw were coiled tight.

Dmitry’s eyes narrowed, meeting Ilia’s calculating gaze and choosing his words carefully. “Not a fan of the people who took everything from my wife. We escaped Russia for a reason. What about you, Ilia? Why did you leave?”

A shadow crossed Ilia’s face and he snatched the envelope from Pyotr, muttering something about seeing the dock owner, _Monsieur_ Borde, before stalking away. Mikhail, walking back from the ship, gave him a wide berth.

Pyotr sighed and shook his head, like Dmitry was a child who had asked an insensitive question of an adult. “He obviously doesn’t like to talk about that, as you can see.”

“He fought in the civil war, then?”

Pyotr grunted in affirmation, tossing his half-eaten apple to a stray dog passing by, who devoured it in one gulp. “He was...high ranking. The Bolsheviks bombed his house. He was out at the time, but his wife and infant daughter were there. They were both killed.”

Dmitry was speechless for a moment while his brain struggled to process that sort of depravity. He had seen officers force families out of their homes, beat resistant men with batons and rip crying women away from their children, but a _baby_ …

“Fucked up, right?” Ivan said, unscrewing the cap on his flask. “Your entire life, everything you love—up in flames.”

Dmitry wasn’t going to ask, but Ivan took it upon himself to extrapolate. He gestured to Mikhail, who had taken Ilia’s spot against the shed.

“One day you have a cushy political science post at the university, writing books and advising politicians, and the next day you’re running for your life.”

Ivan looked away, taking a swig from his flask. There was the briefest crack in his mask of cool indifference. “One day you have a brother, the next day you don’t. While I was studying to be a doctor, he was fighting for the Tsar. In Pyotr’s unit, actually.”

“I was the radio technician. Codebreaker,” Pyotr offered quietly. "That's how I met Ivan. I delivered the news of his brother's passing." 

“I wanted to save lives, but…” Ivan laughed grimmly, a wild sort of gleam in his eye. “Well, I couldn’t save him, could I?”

They were quiet for a long minute, all seemingly lost in their memories while the sharp cries of seagulls pierced the air overhead. Mikhail took a drag of his cigarette, mumbling something in French that made Pyotr grimace.

Finally, Dmitry broke the silence, though he didn’t know what compelled him to talk so openly with these men, still relative strangers.

“Sometimes I wish I had fought in the war. Or done something to help,” he said quietly, looking from Ivan to Pyotr. “I don’t know if I’ve ever fought for anything besides my own life.”

“And that’s where you always have to start,” said Mikhail, crouching down to regard Dmitry seriously. “You recognize the value of your own life, and then you value the life of another person, and another person, and on and on until your empathy extends to a city, a country, a continent.”

“Empathy is the catalyst for community, and community is the catalyst for change,” Pyotr said, seemingly parroting one of Mikhail’s truthisms.

Dmitry pulled himself to his feet, looking westward at the sun setting behind a large tanker. “That’s a nice idea, but you’d need an awful lot of change to fix Russia right now,” he said. 

Pyotr smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. “We’re betting on it.”

Ilia then approached from behind the shed, silently distributing bills to the French men, who more or less ignored him. He counted out the remaining bills and slapped six into Dmitry’s hand.

“Alright boys, time to get out of here. And I’m not opposed to stopping by a pub on the way home,” Ilia said, a weariness heavy in his eyes.

“Here here, brother,” cheered Ivan, shouldering his messenger bag. “And one round on you, Ilia, for having such an impressive stick lodged up your ass today.”

Dmitry turned to follow them, but Pyotr grabbed his forearm, smiling slightly. “Hang back, kid. I wanted to talk to you about a...new opportunity.”

At those words, Ilia’s head whipped around to stare at Pyotr incredulously. “ _Petya_. You can’t be serious.”

Pyotr’s smile broadened and he nodded. “I am. Don’t wait up. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

Ivan smirked, exchanging a conspiratorial look with Mikhail before they very deliberately turned on their heels and walked away. Ilia pursed his lips and shook his head but followed his friends down the street, shooting one more disapproving look at Pyotr over his shoulder.

Pyotr chuckled, watching them leave. “Overprotective old man,” he muttered.

Dmitry shifted his weight nervously before he caught himself and straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. He was not yet accustomed to Pyotr’s uncanny ability to stare intensely down at him like he was a puzzle one piece away from being solved. “So...what is this opportunity?”

Pyotr lurched his head to the side and started to walk, not waiting to see if Dmitry would follow. And of course he did. They set course down a new route, skimming the edge of the long line of docks that made up the Marseille shore.

“Where are we going?” Dmitry asked, checking his watch anxiously.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you home to your eager wife soon,” Pyotr said with a grin, elbowing him in the side. “How long have you been married, anyway?”

“Not long.” _Not a lie._

Pyotr chuckled. “I remember the early days with Irina. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Which would explain all the kids.”

Dmitry vaguely remembered Pyotr mentioning his children before, though not in any great detail. He probably should have assumed he would have a gaggle; Pyotr looked like a composite sketch of a young Russian father.

“How many do you have?”

“Five. Two boys and three girls. A handful, but they’re blessings, every last one of them,” he said wistfully, nodding to himself before turning to Dmitry. “And what about you? Your missus begging you for little ones yet?”

He snorted a laugh, white-knuckling his bag. “Not exactly. We need...more time.”

Time to acclimate to a new country. Time for rumors of Anastasia to die down. Time to make sure his family could be _safe._

“Here’s the thing about having a family, Dmitry. It shows you what’s important in life; it gives you something to fight for,” Pyotr said, bumping his knuckle lightly against Dmitry’s shoulder. “I want a better future for my kids, and I want them to go home to the Russia I remember. And I’ll die trying to give them that.”

Dmitry slowed his pace, looking at his companion quizzically. “You’ll die…? What war, exactly, are you fighting?”

Pyotr paused, glancing at Dmitry from the corner of his eye. He spoke so quietly Dmitry had to strain to listen.

“The war for the future of Russia, of course.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Pyotr was talking nonsense.

That’s all it could be called, truly. A rag-tag collection of disgruntled immigrant ex-soldiers and nobility scattered across Europe, fronting a resistance against the Soviet Union— throwing stones at an empire from the safety of London, Brussels, Madrid and, apparently, Marseille. Dmitry already knew of this group, the _Russkiy Obshche-Voinskiy Soyuz_ , or ROVS.

Five years ago they had set off a pipe bomb in St. Isaac’s Square, killing one commissioner as well as nearly a dozen bystanders, mostly women and children running the day’s errands. Dmitry had heard the blast from four blocks away, and the fire was still burning when he arrived— blood and bodies everywhere. At the time, city leaders blamed a lone wolf, a random, innocent kulak subjected to a sham trial and public execution for his “crime.”

Pyotr had quickly assured Dmitry that those were the earliest, most unorganized days of the ROVS, on the tail end of the civil war, and the coalition did not resort to such militant tactics anymore.

Still, it was an insane fantasy, born from the minds of delusional, embittered men who thought 20 year-old pistols and smear campaigns in illegal newspapers were going to take down one of the strongest powers in the world and return to them everything that had been taken.

And Pyotr wanted him to join.

“We’ve made headway, Dmitry. We have contacts— spies on the inside. We sow dissent, pit faction against faction. There are underground newsletters distributed all over Russia bearing our message, inspiring revolution. Little things that can topple an empire,” Pyotr said, a brilliant if desperate passion behind his words.

They had stopped walking a couple ridiculous assertions ago and now stood in front of a line of thin, brick row houses. Dmitry leaned against a streetlamp, shaking his head in disbelief at what he was hearing.

“Little things that’ll get you all killed.”

Pyotr chuckled and shrugged. “Perhaps. But nothing worth having comes easy. You said yourself you wanted something to fight for.”

“Well, I think I’d prefer fighting for something with odds that aren’t tantamount to suicide,” he said, pushing off the lamp post and walking away.

Pyotr followed, putting a hand on his shoulder to stop him. The man was still smiling, as if this was a fun game he’d played many times before. Dmitry wondered if Ivan and Mikhail and Ilia had been recruited this same way.

“I wouldn’t be asking you to do this if I thought you had a death wish. We’re not a dozen angry peasants with pitchforks; we are 5,000 of Russia’s greatest soldiers and intellectuals. Generals, philosophers, _codebreakers_. I know the Central Committee’s plans before their officers do,” Pyotr said with an air of smugness.

That caught Dmitry by surprise. “Wait, how?”

Pyotr smirked and gestured for Dmitry to sit on a rowhouse’s stoop beside him. He lowered his voice as a couple walked past with their dog.

“When Russia fell to the Bolsheviks, they threw out all the cryptographers but kept the ciphers. They’re years behind cryptography in the rest of Europe and America, and they’re still using a modified version of the code created by my mentor, Ernst Fetterlein, 11 years ago.”

Dmitry stared at him, mouth agape. “Thats…”

“Idiotic? Arrogant? Convenient? Yes to all three. It was child’s play to break. Every night and every morning I monitor the feed. That’s why I was late this morning. Incessant chatter on my radio.”

The pieces clicked into place in Dmitry’s mind, an idea starting to take shape. Pyotr had free access to Soviet communications, which must have been _buzzing_ with talk about Anastasia’s survival for months now. Talk that could warn them if the file with Anya’s name on it was ever re-examined, if more men were sent to hunt her down. Pyotr’s radio could guarantee Anya’s safety.

“Chatter about what?” He asked, trying to disguise the desperation in his voice.

Pyotr patted his shoulder and stood up, offering his hand to Dmitry to pull him up as well. “That, my friend, is classified information for ROVS members only. We have a meeting Wednesday night. My house, after work. Come, or don’t. Either way I’m trusting you not to tell a soul without our permission. Clear?”

Dmitry nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll think about it. And your secret is safe with me.”

Pyotr grinned and patted him on the back. “Good man. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

Dmitry had started to walk back to the main boulevard when Pyotr called out to him. “Dmitry!”

He turned, continuing to walk slowly backwards. “Yeah?”

“When I said don’t tell a soul, that excludes your wife.”

Dmitry stopped in his tracks. “Oh?”

Pyotr shrugged. “A husband and wife share one soul. I wouldn’t ask your left hand to hide something from your right.”

He nodded once, taking a breath.

“One soul,” he confirmed, and continued on his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes about history:  
> The ROVS was a real organization with the ostensible mission of supporting Russian emigre veterans and their families, but (not so) secretly plotted to overthrow Bolshevism. I have taken *significant* creative liberties with this group, but it's true that there was quite a large (if unorganized and fractured) resistance movement that made life a little more difficult for Soviet leaders in the early years of the Union after Lenin died and until the Great Purge in the 30's. 
> 
> Ernst Fetterlein, Pyotr's cryptography mentor, was also a real person-- he was the Tsar's most trusted cryptographer and fled to Britain during the Revolution of 1917. It's safe to say Pyotr would have had an extremely thorough education under him.


	8. Wants and Needs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anya considers the price of freedom, in a most literal sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Your comments are wonderful and very much appreciated.

Anya never thought she’d say it, but she missed street sweeping.

Well, maybe not the criminally low wages or risking frostbite in the subzero Russian winter, but she missed the outdoors, the clammer of the city, the friendly (or just cordially indifferent) passers-by who didn’t reek of condescension toward her. There were no windows in her corner of _Le Bon Marché_ , and she missed the sun. And, there was at least something partly satisfying about earning a few rubles after a strenuous day of cleaning— standing behind a counter with an ornamental smile plastered on her face felt like being paid to slowly _wither and die of boredom._

(She could practically hear Mama’s voice in her ear, _“Don’t be so dramatic…”_ )

It had been a dreadfully slow afternoon - who buys cosmetics on a Tuesday afternoon? - made only slightly more bearable by the thought of going home to her husband, eating dinner with her husband, making love to her—

“Kitchen utensils?”

The smile rose to her face automatically to greet the young woman standing before her. Well (but not extravagantly) dressed, flushed with an overly generous application of rouge, fake pearls at her throat, tapping her foot as if she had somewhere important to be; they all looked the same at this point. Anya knew it was more than slightly hypocritical of her to judge these women’s appearances while deriding their snobbery and rudeness. But she had to pass the time somehow.

“Kitchen utensils can be found in Home Appliances on the first floor, _Madame_.”

The woman turned on her heel without so much as a _thank you_ , almost bumping into Beatrice, a saleswoman from Ladies’ Fashions. Beatrice sidestepped the scowling customer gracefully with a demure apology, waiting for her to walk out of earshot before muttering just loud enough for Anya to hear.

“What a bitch.”

Anya hid her laughter in her hand, checking behind her to make sure Monsieur Gauthier was nowhere in sight; he didn’t like his sales girls “dawdling,” even on the slowest of days. As a result, she hadn’t much gotten to know the other women and the few men who worked at the department store, other than passing salutations in the morning and at the end of her shift. She envied Dmitry in that regard; he hadn’t worked at the docks a full week and it sounded like he had already made friends. Men were cagey about their friendships, though (or maybe that was just Dmitry). It had taken some effort on her part to drag the names and hometowns of his coworkers out of him, and he had blanched when she mentioned having them over for dinner, stammering some excuse about “coarseness” and “mouths like sailors.” If he didn’t want to share, that was just fine; she would make friends of her own. Starting with Beatrice.

“Long day?” Anya asked, trying to rest her elbows casually on the counter, but knocking into a (thankfully) unopened pot of rouge, which clattered to the floor behind the counter. Smooth.

“Like watching paint dry,” Beatrice snorted, tousling a hand through her fashionably cropped blonde hair. “Tuesdays are always the worst.”

Anya fingered the frayed ends of her own hair, tied back in a long braid over her shoulder, and blurted the first thing she thought might endear the other woman to her.

“I like your hair, it’s so chic!” Though the words jumbled together in what Anya was sure what badly accented French.

_Subtle, Anya._

Beatrice lifted a wry brow, smiling as one might to a puppy or a somewhat slow child. “Sweet of you,” she said, sweeping her eyes over Anya. “Your hair is….nice, too. Classic.”

Anya sighed, tossing her braid over her shoulder. “Old fashioned, you mean. Everything about me is old fashioned. I’d love to try a new look. Something...” she lowered her voice self consciously. “...a little sexy.”

Beatrice’s eyes lit up with a conspiratorial glint and she leaned over the counter to grab Anya’s hand excitedly. “You totally should. A bob, a shorter hemline...Oh, and there’s a red tasseled number that just came in, it would look _amazing_ on you.”

Anya internally congratulated herself for finding the right button to press to trigger Girl Talk.

“You think I could pull that off?”

Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Please, you’d be a dime. Men would go crazy for you.”

“Oh, I don’t need that; I already have a husband who’s crazy for me,” Anya said, biting a grin as a blush rose to her cheeks.

Beatrice laughed and twisted her lips in a sort of pout. “What, no fellows on the side?”

Anya coughed, swallowing the shock rising in her throat. Apparently there may have been some truth in what she thought had been an unkind stereotype of the French from Vlad.

“Um, no. Nothing like that.” _Dmitry was quite enough_. “What about you? Do you...are you seeing anyone?”

The other woman shrugged and waved her hand airily. “Here and there. Tomorrow I’m taking the day off to see the countryside with one of my boys. He’s handsome enough, I suppose, but he has a fabulous car, which is, well, really the best thing about him.”

“You sound absolutely enamored,” Anya drawled sarcastically.

Beatrice laughed and reached past Anya to snatch a sample tube of lipstick. She applied it carefully, smacking her lips with a loud pop. “It’s a win-win. I get to feel the wind in my hair, and if he behaves himself, he can cop a feel or two in the backseat. Blotting paper?”

Anya nodded and handed her the small sheet of rice paper.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve ridden in a car— well, a proper car, not a taxi,” she said wistfully, remembering the Saturday afternoons in the back of one of her father’s favorite cars.

She would be squeezed between two of her sisters, squealing with laughter as Nicholas took unexpected twists and turns around their sprawling summer property. Their mother in the front seat, clutching the side of the car like a drowning woman.

Her father had been obsessed with automobiles when the first models arrived in Russia. By the time Anya was 15, the Imperial Garages must have housed at least a dozen fine cars, as well as trucks, trailers and busses. Alexandra had had a strong aversion to automobiles from the beginning, deriding them with contempt as “dreadful machines,” though she begrudgingly tolerated short trips when her husband insisted she accompany him.

Anya and her siblings, on the other hand, inherited their father’s fascination and would beg the chauffeur to take them out for laps around the palace. Olga had even started to learn how to drive, though their mother was quite furious when she found out and expressly forbade any of her other daughters from getting behind the wheel of a car. Never ones to take an unjust rule lying down, Anya and Maria had plotted to one day steal the keys to one of their father’s cars, sneak into the garage, and teach themselves how to operate the contraption based off the few fundamentals Olga had imparted on them— nevermind that this plan would have inevitably ended in disaster.

Not that it mattered in the end. Once Nicholas abdicated, his beautiful cars were seized and the garage would eventually go up in flames. What once represented glorious tastes of freedom for the Romanov children would become loud, shuddering reminders of their captivity— soldiers arriving by the truckload to ransack their home, guards shepherding the family and their servants into vans to take them away.

A poke to her shoulder dragged Anya from her thoughts and she blinked, a little dazed, at the woman in front of her.

“You still there?” Beatrice asked, a bemused look on her face.

“Sorry, I got a little...lost in my head,” she admitted sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck. “It happens sometimes.”

“Well don’t let Gauthier catch you daydreaming at the counter. He’ll have your neck, and then make you clean up the mess,” Beatrice said, patting Anya's hand primly. “I should get back to work. You know—” she gestured behind her at the nearly empty store, rolling her eyes. “We’re just swamped.”

Anya laughed in agreement. “Can’t keep my imaginary customers waiting. I”ll see you Thursday, then. Have fun with your….car.”

Beatrice winked, calling over her shoulder as she sauntered back to her department, “Have fun with your monogamy.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Springtime was fast approaching and the days were getting longer, leaving Anya with a blessed few hours of sunshine remaining when her shift ended at four. Dmitry probably wouldn’t be off work for another two hours, which was just enough time to hunt down an overdue wedding present in Marseille’s near-empty shopping district.

Anya hadn’t even thought about exchanging gifts until the morning after their wedding, when Dmitry presented her with a leather-clad, embossed photo album, already partly filled with photos of her parents and siblings. The most recent photo, the single shot snapped of Anya and her grandmother the morning before she ran away with Dmitry, had brought tears to her eyes.

She had had nothing to give him in return, and although he assured her it didn’t matter, that she was present enough, the old refrain echoed in her head— _Selfish, Anya_. So now, with time on her hands and a checkbook in her pocket, she was determined to find something worthy of her new husband.

Anya paused in front of a bookstore near _Le Bon Marche_ and considered buying Dmitry a novel or two in French so he could practice reading in the language, but thought better of it. That would seem too much like classwork for a wedding gift. She continued on, passing clothing stores without a second glance— Dmitry was utterly uninterested in fashion, and he had already relented to purchase enough new shirts and vests to keep her happy for the time being. And to be perfectly frank, she was more than fine with him traipsing around their apartment in undershirts and suspenders.

A silver watch and a matching set of cufflinks in a jeweler’s window caught her eye, but he already had a pocket watch given to him by Vlad, and she couldn’t imagine he would get much use out of cufflinks. She sighed heavily, hands on hips, as she turned and looked around at the row of shops full of things Dmitry wouldn’t care about. As far as she knew, he only loved a handful of things in life: Her (first and foremost, she was pleased to say), food (a distant second, she would prefer to think), and sleep. Well, and freedom, but abstract ideas were notoriously difficult to wrap.

After perusing another haberdashery (a wonderfully fun word for a dreadfully dull sort of shop) with no luck, she was getting close to throwing her hands up and admitting to herself that Dmitry was just always going to be impossible to shop for. He had gotten by for 29 years without cufflinks and tie clips, and she doubted he was going to start appreciating them anytime soon. Perhaps she could just wrap a red ribbon around her naked body and call it a day. He’d certainly like that more than a decorative belt buckle.

Leaving the shop empty handed and dejected, she almost missed the sandwich board propped up on the street corner, bold red font declaring “New and Used Cars, This Way.” Curious, her eyes followed the sign’s arrow down the sloping street to a car lot. A number of shiny black, white and red cars lined the front of the lot. An idea started to take shape in her head, an idea with four wheels and a pull-down roof.

The two taxi rides they had taken in Paris had been Dmitry’s first— ever. And if memory served her, he had talked about admiring cars from afar in Russia, and dreaming of one day learning to drive one, like she had as a child. Well, now they could both get their wish. They hadn’t touched Anya’s inheritance, aside from a train ticket and their first month’s rent, and what was all that money good for if they couldn’t _spend_ it?

She grinned, shouldering her bag and marching with purpose toward the car lot, picturing the two of them in an open-top car, the wind rustling through their hair as they ambled down country roads. They could pack a picnic and doze under the stars, cuddled together in the backseat. And then, finally, Dmitry would have everything he needed: Anya, food, sleep, and _freedom_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Anya was practically buzzing with excitement by 6:30. Dmitry should be home any minute, and Bernard, the salesman who had more than happily accepted her hastily written check, had already pulled up outside their building with a sunny yellow Citroën Type C. She had been drawn to the car immediately upon arriving at the lot, and Bernard’s pitch had appealed to her: safe, easy to handle, and “particularly suitable for lady drivers.”

Lady drivers and _Dmitry_ , who was going to have to pick his jaw up off the floor when he saw what his wife bought him. If wedding gift-giving was a competition, they were both going to win.

“Do you have a garage for this baby, Madame?” Bernard asked, shutting the driver’s side door with a satisfying click. “A pretty girl like her shouldn’t be left out in the elements.”

Anya actually hadn’t thought about where they would put _Margaritka_ , which is what she had already dubbed the daisy-yellow car. She tapped her chin with her finger, looking around to assess the alleyway leading to building’s backyard.

“There’s space back there, and my husband could build a shelter for it,” she said, her hands reaching out of their own accord to run along the sleek exterior. “For the time being we’ll get a tarp.”

Bernard rattled on about proper care and maintenance, reminding her of oil changes and common engine problems. He had been slightly surprised at the dealership when she said neither her nor Dmitry knew how to drive or maintain a car, but hadn’t skipped a beat, providing her with names and addresses of trusted driving teachers and mechanics, including one who spoke Russian.

“Anya!”

She whipped her head around at the familiar voice, grinning from ear to ear when she saw Dmitry on their street walking toward her, his bag slung over his shoulder and a tired smile on his face.

She lifted her skirts and ran to meet him, not waiting for him to set down his bag before bouncing up on her toes to kiss him. He tried to pull her in closer to deepen the kiss, but she laughed and tugged at his elbows.

“Come see your present!”

He humored her, following behind her dutifully. “My present?”

She nodded, stepping beside the car and clicking her heels together. “Your wedding present.”

Dmitry raised an eyebrow, looking her up and down for signs of a hidden gift. “Where?”

She smiled and rolled her eyes, gesturing to the car. “Here, silly. May I present Margaritka, a 1926 Citroën Type C, with a three-speed transmission, inline-four engine and—” she looked to Bernard, who provided “A top speed of 60 kilometers per hour, _Monsieur_.”

“Well?” Anya said, clasping her hands together and rocking back and forth on her heels. “What do you think? Or are you too excited for words? Take your time.”

Dmitry was still staring at the car, though not quite with the slack-jawed look she had anticipated. Eyes wide, lips pursed— he looked like someone had just punched him in the stomach.

“You...bought a car,” he said quietly, almost straining, tearing his eyes away from the vehicle to meet hers. “Why did you buy a car, Anya?”

Her smile fell by a fraction. He didn’t sound excited at all.

“We can go on trips to the countryside, and visit Vlad and Lily. And now you won’t have to walk all the way to work.”

He didn’t respond for a long moment, taking a deep breath and running his hand through his hair. Bernard, correctly assuming this was a private conversation, albeit one in a language he couldn’t understand, silently stepped aside to buff an invisible mark from the car’s trunk.

Anya wrinkled her brow and took a cautious step toward him. “Do you not like it? Is it too yellow?”

Dmitry ignored her, beckoning to Bernard and asking, in surprisingly clear French, “How much is this?”

“Thirty-five hundred francs, _Monsieur_.”

For a second, Anya thought Dmitry was going to pass out on the spot. His face was ashen when he turned back to her, and his jaw was clamped tight, like it always was when he was upset and trying not to show it. She tittered nervously, the number seeming much larger than it had earlier that evening.

“That’s actually a very good price, Dmitry,” she said, holding out her arms. “It’s secondhand but there’s barely any miles on it, and Bernard says it could last another—”

Dmitry took her arm, pulling her away from the street. “ _Twelve_ francs,” he muttered, so low Anya had to lean in to hear him. “I make no more than 12 francs a day, Anya.”

“I know, but—”

“That’s 60 francs a week, 240 in a month, 2,880 in a year,” he interrupted, his voice rising in volume. “And that’s not accounting for days when we have small shipments, or no shipments at all. Thirty-five hundred francs is not _pocket change_ , damn it!”

A flare of anger sparked and burned within her. She stabbed a finger at his chest. “Don’t yell at me! And I know math, thank you very much. Which is why I know that this is barely a third of what’s in our savings account.”

“That’s your inheritance, Anya; we agreed we weren’t going to touch it unless we had to.”

This just made her more agitated, her white knuckled fists held tightly at her sides as she rounded on him. “It’s our money, Dmitry. And it’s not like I’m buying jewels or something frivolous. It’s a car; it’s useful!”

“You’re thinking like a Romanov,” he said through clenched teeth, keeping his voice down. “A car _is_ something frivolous to a poor man who earns dirt.”

Anya started and backed away as if he’d slapped her. Her eyes narrowed. “I _am_ a Romanov.”

He exhaled a mirthless laugh. “I thought you were a Sudayev now.”

“Why can’t I be both?”

He opened his mouth to respond but no words came out. The fire in his eyes had faded to something dimmer and more desperate, and his shaking hands lifted to wrap around hers. An argument about a car had dug too deep, grinding like a trowel against bones better left undisturbed.

“Anya,” he said gently, and she turned her head away from him, tears pricking at her eyes.

“Anya, I want to be able to give you this. I want you to have nice things,” he said, cupping her chin in his hand. “But we can’t pull from your savings like that. Not for something we don’t need. If something happened, or if we needed to leave quickly… we need to have enough in the bank.”

She sniffed, crossing her arms over her chest tightly. “Are you telling me to return your wedding present?”

He sucked in an audible breath and shook his head. “I’m not going to tell you to do anything. It is your money, after all. But I can’t...I don’t want…”

Anya bit the inside of her cheek, nodding grimly. “You don’t want to feel guilty everytime you look at it.”

“Yes.”

Their eyes met, Dmitry looking imploringly down at her. She had just wanted to surprise him with something she thought they would both enjoy. And all she had done was made both of them upset, mere days after their wedding.

With a sigh, she walked back to Bernard, dragging her feet along the way. The man offered her a sheepish smile, probably surmising what she was about to say.

“A little lover’s spat?” He asked.

“He— we don’t want the car. I...probably should have checked with him beforehand.”

Bernard shrugged, her recently signed check already in his proffered hand. “It happens more often than you think. No harm done. But when you knock some sense into his head, you know where to find me.”

She took the check, thanked him and bid him goodbye, watching sadly as he climbed back into the sunny yellow car to drive it away.

Dmitry approached behind her, standing a few feet away in case she was still upset— but she wasn’t. Just deflated.

“ _Maya milaya_ …” he said softly. “I’m sorry. I know you wanted to surprise me with something nice, and I reacted...poorly.”

She shrugged, and let his arm wrap around her shoulder. “No, you’re right, I was being stupid.”

He squeezer her tighter against him, dropping a kiss on her hair. “Hey, you’re a lot of things, but stupid is definitely not one of them. You’re just… overzealous. And I love that about you.”

“Even when I nearly give you a heart attack?”

He chuckled. “Even then.”

“I still feel bad that I didn’t get you a wedding present, especially after you got me such a beautiful album,” she said, reaching up to wrap her fingers around his hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him and smiled. “How about we go out to dinner tomorrow? Somewhere nice, my treat.”

She felt him tense beside her, just a fraction. “Let’s do Thursday night. Tomorrow I’m going to Pyotr’s house after work.”

“Oh? For what?”

“It’s a social club. You know, a bunch of Russian men sitting around drinking, singing sad songs of the motherland. That sort of thing.”

She giggled and pressed her cheek into his chest. “That doesn’t sound like _your_ type of thing, but I’m glad you’re making friends. Just don’t let them keep you out too late; I want you all to myself at night.”

He grinned, taking her hand to lead her back to their building. “I’m all yours tonight, princess.”

And if there was a thin film of guilt blanketing his words and actions the rest of the night, she attributed it to the car. And if he held her a little tighter after they had made love, well, that simply must have meant he didn’t want to ever let her go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just let her have the damn car. And what's that about a "social club," Dima?


	9. Gambling man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dmitry attends his first meeting of the Russian All-Military Union.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been...too long. Life sort of caught me up and swept me away for a bit, but things have settled down, and I have time to write again. I hope you'll accept this ridiculously long chapter as gratitude for sticking with me. 
> 
> <3

Dmitry was a liar. A reformed liar, most days, but he never lost his knack for it. The fabric of Dmitry’s life had been woven from them-- shoddy stitches, minor falsehoods and entire fake identities to keep himself safe and warm. In St. Petersburg, he had never had the luxury of considering the  _ morality  _ of deception, not when his pockets were as empty as his stomach. He stole and lied and cheated because he wanted desperately, above all else, to live. 

Everything Dmitry had, from the clothes on his back to the wife sharing his home, were held together with this knotted tangle. And the ends were starting to fray, and he was starting to unravel. Deception did not come easily anymore, as evidenced by the dizzying nausea he felt in the pit of his stomach while lying to Anya, while kissing her goodbye when he left that morning, and while walking to the meeting side by side with Pyotr. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t technically the worst lie he had ever told. And truly, he was going to tell Anya everything as soon as he figured out what exactly the ROVS were about and if he could trust them. For the moment, Dmitry swallowed his shame, bitter in the mouth, and let Pyotr chatter on about his kids as they walked. 

Pyotr’s house wasn’t far from the docks, but in the opposite direction of his and Anya’s apartment, squeezed in the middle of a jagged row of thin, graying buildings on a cramped, dingy street. There was a pot of orange  _ khrizantema  _ on the front porch, the brightest splash of color on the block. The street was busy at this time of day, and Dmitry recognized the din of car horns and pedestrians as strategic cover for the coming and goings of rebels to Pyotr’s unassuming home. That had been his and Vlad’s modus operandi as well; shady dealings conducted in abandoned lots and empty alleys were much more likely to appear suspicious than those in the middle of a bustling street. 

Dmitry paused before the stoop, looking over his shoulder before taking a breath and walking up the steps after Pyotr, who held his front door open, a half smile perched on his lips. He cocked his head. 

“No one here is going to bite, I promise.”

As if  _ shyness  _ was the emotion giving him pause. 

Dmitry nodded and after a second, followed the man into his home. The hallway was dark, and he almost stepped on a toy truck lying abandoned on the floor. A dim light shone from the second floor, and he could distantly pick out the voices of children upstairs. He wondered if they knew anything about what their father was planning, or if Pyotr kept his family in blissful ignorance. 

To his right, Pyotr heaved open a thick wooden door that Dmitry hadn’t noticed when he walked in— a long staircase leading to the basement. A single, buzzing light bulb cast flickering shadows that swung with the draft. 

“After you,” Pyotr said. 

Dmitry swallowed as he took a step, hesitation swelling in his stomach. Men’s voices grew louder as they descended, along with what sounded like the scrape of metal on concrete. 

They rounded the landing and the basement room opened up before them, freezing Dmitry in place as he took in the size of the crowd. When Pyotr said he ran a “small ROVS chapter,” Dmitry thought he meant the dock crew plus a few other Russian emigres. But there were 20, maybe 30 men crammed into the long, skinny basement. Men were arranging metal folding chairs around the front of the room, and off to the side Ilia and Mikhail stood facing a blackboard on wheels. A tall blonde woman, the only woman in the room, was organizing a stack of pamphlets on a table to their left by the door. Pyotr smiled when he saw her, walking toward her with his arms outstretched. 

“About time, I was wondering if you got picked off on the way,” she teased, accepting a kiss to her cheek. She looked around Pyotr at Dmitry and offered a friendly smile. “And who’s this? A new recruit?” 

“Ah, yes! Irina, this is Dmitry, the young man who joined my crew the other week. He came from St. Petersburg with his wife. Dmitry, my wife— Irina.” 

Distractedly, he replied. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.” 

She shook his hand, her grip almost as tight and unyielding as Pyotr’s. “Welcome, Dmitry. I hope you can feel at home here,” she said, and turned to her husband. “Pyotr, I finished the mock-ups for the new literature, but there’s some wording I think we should discuss…”

Dmitry looked away as Pyotr conferred with his wife, scanning the room and its occupants. The majority looked to be middle-aged and older, with just two or three who might have been his own age. 

Circles of men convened in corners and around the blackboard. Two or three large plates holding what appeared to be sandwiches and pastries were being circulated around the room. It could indeed have been a men’s social club, meeting for a drink and a bite after work, if not for the restless disquiet in the room. They all held themselves with the tension of soldiers between battles— at ease, but tightly coiled. He wondered how many guns were loaded and holstered around him at that very moment. 

He had barely been of age when the Tsar was overthrown, and too cynical to join the few who rallied behind the generals loyal to the Romanovs. This had not been his war to fight, and now he found himself, unbeknownst to these men, in the very vortex, by virtue of proximity to the only person with a credible claim to the defunct Russian throne. And even then, it was unclear what his role, if any, would be. 

“You didn’t chicken out, after all.” 

Ivan appeared beside him, a lopsided smirk disingenuously plastered to his face. His usual bravado was betrayed by his fidgeting— his arms unclasping from behind his back and coming to his chest to fiddle with the heavy cross that laid there. A lump in his jacket front pocket revealed the always present flask, but for once, he didn’t smell like alcohol. 

Dmitry shrugged. “What can I say, I was seduced by the lure of revolution,” he said facetiously, snatching a small ham and tomato sandwich from the plate being passed around. “And tempted by the promise of free food.” 

Ivan snorted, grabbing a sandwich and stuffing half of it into his mouth. “So you have a death wish too,” he said, speaking with his mouth grotesquely full. “You’ll fit right in. Just wait til you hear Ilia talk.”

His statement was left dangling, unpunctuated by the usual swig from his flask. Dmitry watched him twist the cross between his fingers, wondered at his sobriety. 

“Then why are you here? If you don’t believe in the cause?” 

Ivan chuckled dryly. “Cause? There’s no cause left to believe in. Russia is dead. Along with everyone worth fighting for. I’m just here for the spectacle of it all.” 

Dmitry nodded, understanding now. “No, you’re here because your brother would have been here.” 

The other man stiffened, the muscles in his jaw twitching briefly before relaxing into a neutral expression. His eyes flashed when he looked at Dmitry, though not with anger. Something like recognition. He paused, considering Dmitry for a moment. 

“You watch people, don’t you? You read them like Mikhail reads books.” 

Dmitry raised an eyebrow. He had expected a rebuffing, not a psychological profile. “Where I come from, unobservant is as good as dead.” 

Ivan laughed, a real one this time. “Spoken like a Russian rat. Fair enough, kid,” he said, clapping him on the back. “Come on, sit down. Ilia is probably going to start soon.” 

Ivan seemed somewhat lighter now as he led Dmitry to a couple of chairs toward the back. The other men in the room had also started to find their seats. A group of older men wearing military insignia on their lapels were the last to sit, taking seats in the front row around a small table, upon which laid a map. Ilia stood at the blackboard, rustling a stack of papers in his hands. 

Dmitry nudged Ivan to get his attention. “Who are the men up in the front?” 

“The council,” Ivan muttered. “Bored old men playing at war again. They’d follow Ilia anywhere.” 

“I thought Pyotr was in charge.” 

Ivan made a vague back and forth gesture with his hands. “Pyotr’s the ringleader of this circus, certainly. Ilia is…” 

“The lion?” Dmitry supplied. 

“More like the whip. He has plenty of ideas though; the man has fantasized about overthrowing the Bolshies for a decade.” 

“What sort of ideas?”

Ivan rolled his eyes. “You’ll see. Let’s just say the man’s a royalist through and through.” 

“Gentlemen,” Pyotr’s voice rang from the front of the room. All chatter hushed. Ilia stood in the front corner, looking around the room. His eyes rested on Dmitry for a moment and he frowned before looking away, using his foot to unlock the wheels of the chalkboard behind him. 

“Thank you for being here today,” Pyotr continued. “We have a lot of ground to cover, but let’s start with the news we received this morning on the radio. Ilia?” 

Dmitry watched as Ilia took hold of the chalkboard and wheeled it toward the center of the room, exposing a previously obscured painting on the wall. And there, larger than life, the little girl in the painting stared down at him with vacant blue eyes, a prim and polite smile he had never once seen her make in real life. The air in the room grew stale and cold, and Dmitry’s mouth hung open dumbly. Pyotr continued speaking, gesturing now at the words upon the chalkboard with a pointer, but Dmitry’s ears were ringing. 

Beside him, he could distantly hear Ivan chuckle. “They call her Saint Anastasia. Morbid, eh?” 

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
  


Under his wife’s unsettling gaze, the meeting moved on. Dmitry was missing context, but it appeared the coded message Pyotr had deciphered a couple of days ago was about a minor peasant uprising in a village outside Moscow, spurred on by a severe shortage in grain and subsequent requisitions by the Soviet government. 

“The people are angry,” Ilia said, addressing the group with the air of a general facing his command. “Complaints have turned to protests, and these protests are becoming more violent every day. We’ve received reports of a  police station vandalised and looted for grain that had been seized in raids.” 

“They’re not revolutionaries,” said a voice from the front row— a council member. “They’re just hungry.” 

Pyotr nodded, pacing slowly in front of the chalkboard with his hands steepled. “Hunger is an apolitical motivation. Rebellions carried on the backs of a hungry populace will fall apart if the ache in their bellies is satisfied, even temporarily. But it’s a motivation nonetheless,” Pyotr said, turning to face the man in the front row. “And there are few things a man won’t do to feed his starving children.” 

“One revolt in a nameless village will not turn the tide of the election next year. A hundred revolts couldn’t. The legislative elections are all rigged; we know this by now. It’s a ruse.” 

Ilia stepped forward, taking a piece of chalk and gesturing toward the council member. “You’re not seeing the big picture, Nikita. Hungry peasants are just one part of the equation.” 

He faced the chalkboard, scribbling on the board the words _peasant farmers,_ and beside them _urban workers._ He circled both. 

“The farmers feel they are being taken advantage of. They are glorified serfs under Stalin. The factory workers in the city, meanwhile, are living in a police state. Communist officials have become a privileged class, the very thing they vowed to abolish.” 

Ilia moved to the other side of the board, scratching more looping script. “And then you have the  Kulaks, the Tolstoyans, the Baptists, politically repressed and facing imminent persecution. The Orthodox Church, of course, is pushing for a religious reform. And who could forget the United Opposition,” Ilia said with an empty smirk, underlining the words twice. “Left-leaning Soviets, kicked out of the Communist party. And what do all of these groups have in common?” 

Pyotr smiled slightly. “They’re all likely to run their own candidates for the legislative election next fall. And when they lose, they’re not going to lose quietly.” 

As he spoke, the pieces started to fit together in Dmitry’s mind. He recalled the street gangs of hungry, jobless young men in St. Petersburg— their brazen thefts and muggings drawing the law’s attention to Dmitry’s favorite turfs and making his work a hell of a lot harder. The Soviets figured the best way to clear a neighborhood of its gangs was to play each off the other. Spread a suggestive rumor here, plant a stolen wallet there, and the lazy bastards thought they could sit back and watch rival gangs tear each other apart. 

What they didn’t anticipate was that the hungry and jobless had more in common with each other than the regime that hounded them. Just a couple weeks before he had met Anya, Dmitry had narrowly escaped a violent skirmish between an allied pair of gangs and a dozen officers, which, last he had heard, left one officer dead and six seriously wounded. 

If a couple dozen street rats can take several Bolshies out of commission, one could only imagine the damage the Russian populace could do, if angry enough. If properly motivated. 

The rest of the room had caught on, and excited, speculative chatter echoed off the walls. Ivan raised an eyebrow incredulously, silently implying  _ Can you believe this shit? _

Dmitry could. Nothing could surprise him at this point. 

Ilia raised a steady hand, and the room quieted. 

“After the elections, we’re going to have hundreds of thousands of hungry,  _ angry  _ Russians on our hands. If they aren’t already disillusioned with the Party, they will be. And  _ that,  _ my friends, will be our time to recruit, mobilize, and do some real damage.” 

A few council members in the front row seemed to chuckle, and Dmitry wondered what sort of  _ damage _ the ROVS had previously discussed. Ivan shook his head, mumbling something that sounded like  _ vultures.  _

Pyotr cleared his throat, pushing the chalkboard back to its place against the wall. “But remember, this election is many months away. There is little we can do until the candidates are officially announced over the summer. In the meantime, let’s focus on the present. Who has news?” 

In what appeared to be a practiced ritual for the group, men stood up one by one to deliver news and rumors they had gathered from family and friends still in Russia as well as those living in Marseille. Most of the updates were short and inconsequential, at least to Dmitry’s ears, but Mikhail, now seated at the front of the room, diligently noted each one on a pad of paper. 

“Masha says three girls in the town have come with child out of wedlock just this winter.” 

“The police station in Zarechny was vandalized and robbed.” 

“There are no more buses or trains running through Kirsanov.” 

When it was Ivan’s turn, he made a show of standing up and saluting to Pyotr. “Sir, a cow farted in Saratov, sir.” 

Pyotr rolled his eyes before gesturing to Dmitry. “And our newest member? You are the most recent arrival from Russia, Dmitry. What news do you have from the motherland?” 

Dmitry rose slowly, looking around at the other attendees staring back up at him expectantly. 

“I’m afraid I don’t have any news. I kept my head down in Russia— kept to myself.” 

Unsatisfied with his answer, Pyotr pressed further. “You mentioned you and your wife stopped in Paris before coming to Marseille. There’s a large Russian population there.” 

“Yes, to visit Anya’s grandmother, but we were only there for a couple of nights.” 

“I’m sure you heard the rumors about the Grand Duchess Anastasia, though. That’s all Russian aristocrats have talked about for months,” he said, and several men murmured their agreement. “

There were tabloid reports that the princess had been found in Paris, and Moscow was taking it seriously. The radio was buzzing for two days straight, and we thought....” Pyotr trailed off, smiling sadly. “Well, all of those leads disappeared. But you would have been there around the time of that fiasco, I think.”

Dmitry had wondered when Pyotr would ask about the rumors and the timing of his and Anya’s arrival.  He schooled his face into one of casual indifference and shrugged. 

“I remember the gossip, but I didn’t think anything of it. There have been rumors of Anastasia’s survival for years, and dozens of girls pretending to be lost princesses.” 

“Some of the messages we intercepted seemed to indicate that an agent was dispatched to kill the girl,” said Ilia.

Dmitry scoffed. “The Kremlin sent a _chekist_ to cross Europe and murder some actress pretending to be a princess?”

“Even a pretend princess can be dangerous, if enough people are willing to bow to her,” Ilia said, and the conviction in his voice made Dmitry uneasy. 

Pyotr shot a look at Ilia, who promptly pursed his lips and stepped back. He turned back toward Dmitry. “Nothing else, Sudayev?” 

“Nothing I can think of. If I remember something, I’ll let you know.” 

There was no accusation in Pyotr’s gaze, but he paused, considering Dmitry briefly before nodding. “Please do.”   
  


 

 

* * *

  
  
  


 

The meeting stretched late into the night, and Dmitry felt himself easing into the bonds of this strange fraternity. He spoke as much as was necessary, and not a word more, giving himself the appearance of being a decent conversation partner, though not a particularly interesting one. He was not relaxed or even comfortable, but blending in to any group was simple enough if one had the good sense to pay attention. 

These men were not like him, that much was certain. With the notable omission of aiding and abetting an anti-Soviet military union, they were not criminals. They were once soldiers and policemen, doctors and lawyers; men who had benefited from and upheld the rule of law. Men who once lived stable, if not luxurious lives. With the revolution, they had lost everything that, at one point, must have felt like guarantees. They were just now learning what Dmitry had known since he was a child— nothing is yours to keep. And now they came here, to this cellar in a town so far from home, desperate for some crumb of hope that they could win back what was stolen. It was a futile, foolish hope, but Dmitry envied them for it. 

At some point in the evening, Pyotr and Ilia had retreated to a back table with two other council members, having abandoned their maps and charts for a couple of drinks and casual chatter. The official meeting seemed to have ended, and so Dmitry inched toward the door, hoping to leave unnoticed. 

But before he could make it to the stairway, a hand grabbed his arm. Dmitry turned to see Ivan, who had clearly already broken his self-imposed, temporary sobriety, and was pushing a quarter-full bottle of vodka into Dmitry’s hands. Dmitry declined, trying to extricate himself from Ivan’s grip. 

Ivan relented, but moved with a somewhat surprising speed to lean against the doorframe, blocking Dmitry’s path. “Where does your wife think you are?” 

Dmitry raised an eyebrow. “Why would you think my wife doesn’t know where I am?” 

Ivan laughed, swirling the bottle so the liquid sloshed inside. “Call it a hunch. You’re not the only person around here who pays attention.” 

Dmitry stared at him, biting his cheek. “I told her I’m with friends. And I am.” 

“Yes, because that’s not strange at all— a man staying out with his friends until midnight and coming home to his woman  _ sober _ .” 

Dmitry was not about to admit that Ivan had a point. “I’m not going home drunk. Can I leave now?”

“You don’t have to be drunk,” Ivan said, grinning darkly as he unscrewed the cap on the bottle. “You just have to smell like it.” 

Before Dmitry had time to react, Ivan reached over and lazily poured the rest of the bottle’s contents over his head, splashing down the sides of his neck and soaking into the shoulders of his jacket. It certainly wasn’t the first time Dmitry had been doused with a bottle of alcohol, but it was the first that he successfully suppressed the urge to sock the pourer in the nose, albeit with great difficulty. 

“What the hell!” He grit through clenched teeth, furiously wiping and pawing at his dripping clothes in vain. “Are you insane, or do you just like acting like it?” 

“I’m just a man helping another man lie to his wife. You’re welcome.” 

“I’m not going to lie to her,” he said, tearing the wet jacket off his shoulders as he pushed Ivan out of the way. “And you’re never going to do that again if you want to keep your nose properly aligned.” 

  
  
  
  


* * *

 

 

 

 

The walk home was long, made more difficult by Dmitry’s unfamiliarity with Pyotr’s neighborhood and the constant, acrid burn of vodka wafting into his nostrils. He hadn’t realized how late it was until Ivan had brought it up— Anya would surely be in bed and asleep already, as she had an early shift the next morning. They might not even be able to speak to each other until the following afternoon after work, at which point Dmitry vowed to tell her everything: ROVS, Ilia’s plan, the unsettling portrait of little “Saint Anastasia”… 

He would not,  _ could not _ be the type of man who lied to his wife. Even if it was risky, even if the insistent voice in his head, the frightened child who never grew up or learned to let go, screamed at him to keep everything he loved safe and well-hidden, like a feral dog guarding his bones. 

And besides, this was a  _ good  _ thing. What better way to protect himself and Anya than to stay one step ahead of the people hunting her? Who better to surround themselves with than a small army of men who had once sworn their loyalty to Russia and the royal family? Anya would agree. Anya would more than agree, actually. 

She would attend meetings herself, making anti-propaganda pamphlets and recruiting for the cause. She would advise Pyotr and Ilia on ways to best appeal to the aristocrats and elites in Paris. And she would trust those men so easily, like she had trusted Dmitry and Vlad, and volunteer herself to be the figurehead on the prow of their sinking ship. She would be their Joan of Arc if she had to, if it meant illuminating Russia with the light of her flames as she burned. 

Joan of Arc,  _ Saint Anastasia _ . Lord help him; he had married a martyr. 

Lost in his head, he almost walked past  17 Rue Saint-Antoine. The building was silent and darkened, its occupants having long retired for the night. Stepping into their apartment, cleaned to Anya’s immaculate standards, he recoiled at his own scent, radiating off of him in pungent, drunken waves. He smelled flammable. 

He set his key on the table, slipping his shoes off quietly. He heard the lamp in the bedroom switch on, and light flooded out beneath the door.  _ Shit.  _

“Dmitry?” 

“Go back to sleep, Anya. I just need to wash up.” 

The door creaked open and she shuffled into the main room in her dressing gown, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. 

“Why are you back so late?” 

He deposited his jacket on a chair before leading her gently back to the bedroom. “I know, I’m sorry. We lost track of time.” 

She sniffed the air and made a face. “Are you drunk? You smell like a pub.” She reached up and touched his collar, her mouth twisting into a sly grin. “And is this...vodka? Well, someone had fun tonight.” 

“Yeah, uh, some idiot spilled his drink on me. I’m going to take a shower,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt as he headed toward the bathroom.

Anya followed. “So, how was it?” 

He paused, pretending to look for his towel in the hall cupboard. It shouldn’t have been so hard— he had to tell her. He was aching to tell her. But in his head were flashes of fire and he was that frightened little boy again, scared and alone, watching his father torn from his fingers. He couldn’t lose her. He wouldn’t light the match for her. 

 

“It was good. Played a few rounds of  _ durak _ .”

He hated himself. Part of him wished she was able to see through him and demand the truth. But no, he was much too good at this. 

Anya reached around him, grabbing a towel for him from the bottom shelf. “I didn’t take you for a gambling man, Dima,” she said, swatting him playfully with the towel. “Don’t you go give away our fortune.” 

He grabbed the end of it and tugged her closer, kissing the top of her head. He forced himself to smile, and for once, it didn’t come easily.

“I know, Anya. I have too much to lose.”


End file.
